


New Beginnings (and old sociopaths)

by DownpourOfFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, BDSM, Big Brother Mycroft, Bondage, Developing Relationship, Dominant Mycroft, Fluff and Angst, Johncroft, Late Night Texting, M/M, MyJohn, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes Feels, POV John Watson, Pining, Protective Mycroft, References to Depression, Rope Bondage, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownpourOfFeels/pseuds/DownpourOfFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Sherlock gone and John growing ever the more depressed and sexually desperate, he gives in to himself and goes to the one person he always swore he wouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I already know what you like...

**Author's Note:**

> This is set roughly 11 months after The Reichenbach Fall. The first two chapters are currently in the process of being edited, as they were written a long time ago and I desperately want to improve them. This is most definitely a work in progress...I hope you enjoy!

John stumbled through the grand glass doors of the hotel and gawped, _of course_ Mycroft had sorted out a ridiculously posh one, no doubt he's booked the most expensive room as well. 

John faltered, his vision wavering. It took more effort than usual to focus his vision and scan the extravagant hotel lobby for the reception desk. He was tipsy after all.

After a long moment, he finally found it and began heading in that direction, trying desperately to keep his head straight and his body from swaying beneath him. He’d had a drink before he came, and was worried that they might not let him through if they knew that he was intoxicated.

His anxiety seemed to grow with every single step, and all of a sudden he felt his cheeks begin to burn at the slow realisation that he did not have a suitcase and already looked rather suspicious. His heart jumped at the fear that perhaps people might recognise him. Maybe they might even guess what he was here for, it could be in the papers before tomorrow morning and-

 _Stop._ He told himself slowly. _Just stop._   _I'm just being paranoid. No one will know._

He exhaled a shaky breath. He needed to calm down, steady himself and push the shame than was quickly rising up through his body back down. He _wanted_ this. He didn’t want to want this. But he did. It hit him that he must look odd pausing in the middle of the lobby and he decided to try and play it off by dragging his phone from his pocket and double checking what Mycroft had texted him:

**502\. Holmes.**

Right, the room number and - John gulped - the name it was under, that last part was obvious really. He blinked as the words blurred a bit on the screen, but he knew that was just the drink. He began walking again until he reached the desk and managed to check in - just about. He stuttered nervously on a couple of words but fortunately the woman didn’t say anything.

Following directions, he made his way quickly across the lobby to the posh looking lift, and soon he was on the top floor, walking along the stately corridor to the room. He found it in no time but just before he touched the handle something stopped him.

He steadied himself with both hands, his fingers clutching the doorframe as he took another deep breath. If he was strong enough, he could turn around now, and not do this. He could go back to his lonely, miserable flat and drink himself to unconsciousness. He could wake up on the floor the next morning, like he always seemed too, and pull himself to the shower, once again trying desperately not to think about the one person who had made his life worth living.

 _Sherlock_.

The awful memories of that day always seemed to suffocate him like black smoke. The small details were always the worst, the way he had sounded on the phone, the tone of his last words, “ _Goodbye, John_.”

He’d pull himself together, try to think of the happy memories, but all that seemed to lead too was him shamefully trying not to touch himself as the thoughts of all their lazy mornings came flooding back. The way Sherlock would moan while he fucked him, the way his head would fall back against the pillows when John finally let him come.

 _Oh god_.

In the midst of unawareness that was his thoughts, his head had fallen against the room door with a thump.

“John?” Mycroft’s voice called out in a questioning tone.

 _Fuck._ He was already in there, of course he was.

“Err, yes,” John slurred, before swiping his keycard and letting himself in. He walked through the door, turned a corner and _wow,_  he couldn’t stop himself from gasping. The room was enormous, and most certainly the most luxurious place ne had been in a very long time. To his left, a huge double king-sized bed sat against the back of a heavily decorated wall. While a large wooden coffee table and a pair of beautiful bespoke fabric chairs stood proudly in the centre of the room. And the view. _Jesus_. The wall opposite the bed had two large sleek glass windows that so elegantly presented a breathtaking view of the entire city of London. Wow.

“Lovely, isn’t it? Sit down, John.” Mycroft's voice was oddly soft, soothing maybe, but there was something about the way he had said ‘sit down’ that sounded slightly...commanding. John winced in slight shame as he felt all the words turn into arousal in his pants.  

“I would offer you a drink but I see you’ve had one already...” The older man smirked.

John nodded, unsure of what to do next. He didn’t really want to sit down, he still wasn’t 100 percent sure he wanted to be here.

Mycroft closed some of the gap between them and held up a glass with what looked like whisky in it, “Here, have another anyway, it’s your favourite.”

John took it gratefully. His thoughts weren’t blurry enough yet, and he needed them to be, if he was actually going to do this.

“Don’t doubt yourself John, you do want this." Mycroft began in a bored tone. "You’ve wanted it for _ages_.” His final words turned deep and seductive, and John had to stop a small moan escaping from his mouth.

The corner of Mycroft’s lips curled up into another smirk.

“Don’t hold back from me. I already know what you like.” He whispered smoothly.

John twitched in anticipation, his eyes following Mycroft movements slowly. The older man leant over and picked up a coil of thick black rope that was sat on the bedside table. John hadn’t even noticed it was there until now.

John looked up startled, and felt himself tense. This...wasn’t what they had arranged. How the hell did he know about his kink, nobody knew.

“What? How did you-”

“I deduced it the first time we met, John. Don’t be so surprised” He paused. “I didn’t think you’d have a complaint,” he added, practically purring.

John gulped at the feel of his erection growing tight against his trousers. Yet he couldn’t help feeling slight anger having being taken off guard like this. This was one of his biggest secrets, even Sherlock didn’t know about this. _Sherlock_. A sharp stab of pain began to rise in his chest at the thought of him, shame beginning to curl and snake through his body, his heart, pulling his eyelids shut. He dropped his head.

“Don’t think of him!” Mycroft growled, his voice angry and stern. “Thinking of him will only ruin this, for both of us.”

John froze, rather taken back, Mycroft was right of course. He needed to blank those thoughts from his brain completely, that was what the alcohol was for. He took another large gulp and felt his throat burn. God, It was strong.

“Good. If you do that again, I might have to... punish you, understand?” Mycroft said firmly, his voice dropping several octaves as he spoke.

The smaller man nodded silently before draining the remainder of his glass. Mycroft held out the bottle and offered to pour another, and John didn't refuse.

After he'd several more gulps, Mycroft stepped closer, reaching out to begin undoing the buttons on John’s shirt, rope still in hand. John felt his breath quicken. He held himself still, trying to hide his blatant arousal at the dark tone of Mycroft’s words. 

“Oh the obedience of a soldier. This is good John, we should have done this sooner.”

John couldn't possibly think of a response, instead he continued to stand, watching Mycroft’s lips until he felt his shirt being pushed from his shoulders. He was bare-chested now, his nipples erect from the sudden change in temperature.

Mycroft's eyes trailed slowly up and down John's body. “My, you haven’t lost too much shape have you.” He breathed quietly.

At those words, John couldn’t stop a moan from escaping from his lips.

“Hold out your wrists,” Mycroft commanded, his quiet tone gone in a heartbeat.

John did as he was told, after putting the now empty glass on the dresser beside them. As moment passed and he found himself looking up into Mycroft's eyes, properly, for the first time since he’d arrived. Yet to his disappointment they were firmly focused on the task in hand, but still John couldn’t help but stare, mesmerised by the green-blue glow of his irises, and the thought of the immensely clever brain behind them.

Mycroft's eyes flicked up to his.

“Your pupils have dilated John, you definitely want this.”

John let out a breathy sort of moan in response, he did. He really did. Mycroft had now finished binding his wrists, and John let his tied hands drop to his front.

“Please.” He moaned, cocking an eyebrow and looking down at the bulge in his trousers. It was what they were here for after all.

“Don’t be ridiculous John. I’m the one telling you what to do.” Mycroft hissed, before placing his hands on John’s shoulders and shoving him down onto his knees.

John cried out in a surprise. Mycroft was making him wait, but actually this was better. This way he wasn’t in control anymore.

Mycroft quickly fiddled with his own trousers and pushed them down so they were around his ankles. John stared at Mycroft's silky white, biting his lip.

“Take them off.” Mycroft demanded, his voice lower than ever.

“What?” John whispered, thinking of his bound hands.

“Take them off... with your mouth.” Mycroft repeated, ever so slowly. Before thrusting his hands into John’s hair and pushing him forward towards his crotch.

Joan moaned loudly and began to bite at the rim of Mycroft's boxers, before taking a grip and dragging them down with his teeth. To his relief Mycroft helped a little and slid them down at the back also. And before John knew what was happening Mycroft's fully erect cock sprung free and hit him on the cheek. This time he actually heard Mycroft moan.

“Now, take it in your mouth.” Mycroft instructed. John could tell he was trying to keep his voice stern but he noticed it was already beginning to waver slightly.

John decided to start at the bottom, he licked at the base, sucking and pulling, teasing even, before slowly licking his way all the way up towards the tip.

Mycroft moaned loudly, his eyes never leaving John’s face.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this, John.” he breathed.

John shook his head, licking his lips before opening his mouth wide and taking Mycroft's full length this time moaning onto his cock. He was desperate at this point. He hadn’t had any since Sherlock had jumped, and it had been nearly year. With Mycroft pushing at the back of his head, John began to swallow down even more, suddenly desperate to push that dashing thought of Sherlock away. He pulled back up, it was in his head now, Sherlock. He couldn’t stop the comparison of them both from flashing through his brain. The way Sherlock was smoother, paler, than this rough Mycroft. The way Sherlock would be gentle, unsure. The way he- John stopped moving.

Mycroft stopped moaning and looked down at him, confused, and then angry.

“You’re thinking of him again. Aren’t you!” His voice bubbling with rage.

John could hardly admit that he found that voice all the more arousing. He stifled a moan before looking down ashamed of himself. He wanted to please Mycroft, he was enjoying this far too much for it to stop now. John glanced back up to him pleadingly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Punish me. Please.” He was meant to sound sincere but his voice came out breathless and rushed.

Mycroft’s eyes lit up.

“Fine. Lie face down on the bed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! There is a lot more to come, don't worry.


	2. A drunken experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things continue from where they left off.

With great effort, John pulled himself from his knees, arms still bound in front of him. With the feel of Mycroft's burning eyes on his back, he walked over to the bed, his cock so hard it rubbed against his trousers.

He reached the edge of the bed, still facing away from Mycroft. He waited for a second before speaking as he could hear what was presumably Mycroft ridding himself of the rest of his clothes.

“How do you want me?” John finally breathed. Then he gasped unexpectedly with pleasure as his felt Mycroft place a firm grip on the back of his neck with one hand.

“Like this.” Mycroft said coolly, while pushing John down over the bed so that his face was squashed sideways against the sheets, his arse was up in the air, bent over the curve of the bed. His tied arms now beneath him. John moaned desperately, even the feel of the bed felt good against his trousers right now.

“Good boy.” Mycroft cooed, and John felt himself melt at his words. This was what he had always wanted, sex like this, and Mycroft was doing it so perfectly.

“Now we need to get these trousers off you if I am to…” Mycroft cleared his throat, then pressed himself down over John, aligning their bodies perfectly before whispering seductively in his ear “Punish...you.”

John shivered violently, the mixed feeling of being so drunk and so heavily aroused taking over his head, his body, his feelings, his senses. It was engulfing him like a fire. All he wanted was sex. This was too much. He needed Mycroft to hurry up and just fuck him senseless.

“Please” John begged, “Fucking punish me.”

“Ah, we have an impatient soldier today” Mycroft smirked. He leant back and John immediately missed the feel of the bulging erection that had been pressed at his behind.

John laid there, deprived of touch on every point of his body except from Mycroft's hand placed firmly on the back of his neck. He could wait no longer, with a loud groan he began struggling, squirming and thrusting desperately at the bed. Mycroft's laugh turned into a moan.

“Alright, alright.”

John noticed a distinct change in the tone of the older man's voice, it was slightly lighter, softer and if John wasn’t wrong, held a stroke of pity. He wondered if Mycroft had had a bit to drink too, thinking about it, the bottle did look nearly a third empty when it had been offered to him.

Lost in this quick thought John had stopped squirming. Then at long last he felt Mycroft's hand reach underneath him to undo the buttons on his trousers. John lifted himself up a bit to allow him better access and luckily Mycroft didn’t waste any time, soon John felt the now unbearably tight trousers and pants being pulled off him, down his legs to around his ankles.

“Tha-thank you, at last- Ah!” John cried out loudly in a moan half filled with pain, half with sexual pleasure as Mycroft smacked him hard across the arse.

“Fuck.” Cried John. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” The place Mycroft had struck was stinging, it may even leave a mark. _Fuck_. That was hot. The alcohol had really gone to his head now, everything seemed more intense...yet the situation surreal. He felt like his mind wasn’t quite in the room but at the same time his body was dissolving in tingling sexual desire and the desperate need to come.

Mycroft tightened his grip on John’s neck.

“You’re going to be a good little fuck boy for me, aren’t you.”

John moaned so loudly he was worried the hotel staff would hear him through the walls.

“Yes!” He pleaded. “Yes, yes.”

Mycroft let go, and John found himself surprisingly disappointed. He lay still, keeping his face pressed into the sheets. He could hear Mycroft walk away from the bed and begin rummaging around in a draw behind him, but he daren’t look up to see what he was doing. In this fleetingly brief and quiet moment, it dawned on John that this must also be a thing that suited Mycroft's tastes, for him to make such an effort like this. John breathed a silent sigh of relief, he wasn’t crazy, Mycroft wanted it to be like this as much as him, if not more.

“Get up.” Mycroft ordered, although his voice was much softer than before.

John attempted to push himself up from the bed, although it was hard with bound wrists. He was about to struggle with his arms, when he felt a soft touch on each of his shoulders, gripping him lightly, and pulling him upwards. Mycroft lifted him so he was sat back on his heels at the foot of the bed. John stole this chance to look up at Mycroft's hands and see what he had been rummaging around for. Lube. Oh god. John gulped. They’d arranged this awkwardly over text. There were no details, no direct plans and it had already been far, far different from what John was expecting. Better yes, but now he had no idea what exactly was going to happen next.

“Sit up on the bed.”

John did, and Mycroft made quick work of removing the crumpled trousers still around his ankles. Before John had a clue what was happening, Mycroft had pushed him back with force against the pillows, grabbing his tied wrists at his front and pushing them above John’s head, so that they were pinned to the headboard. John swallowed down a moan. This was good, he thought, his cock might finally get some attention. John watched greedily as Mycroft slicked his hand with lube. While still maintaining the pinning grip on John’s wrists with his left hand, Mycroft shuffled over, and parted his legs so that he was kneeling either side of John’s hips. This could work, John concluded, this way Mycroft was positioned so that he wasn’t directly putting all his weight on John, but was still pinning him down effectively enough to have full access to everything he wanted too.

Their eyes locked, the sexual tension radiating between them like electricity. Somehow Mycroft was still fairly composed, with only a slight blush on his cheeks. John however, was now panting fiercely, the anticipation of what was about to happen next making his cock throb. He wanted it, no, needed it, so badly now he was shaking. While maintaining Mycroft's gaze, John pulled his tongue over his lips, he was inviting him now. Done with holding back, John decided to go for it.

"Fuck me. Please. It's all I want" He whispered.

John then watched as Mycroft's began to move his hand down between them, his eyes were sparkling. Mycroft made sure the movement was tantalizingly slow, teasing John. Toying with his desperate need.

It may have been the drink, or the pure desperation, but John cried out so loudly at the first touch to his cock that Mycroft's hand flew up to cover his mouth in retaliation.

“Quiet! I don’t think the walls are quite that soundproof.” He quipped. But John could see the fire alight in his eyes, feel the heat flowing from his body. Mycroft was loving this. He pulled his hand away from John’s mouth and brought it back down to his cock, making John's mouth drop open in a moan as Mycroft's fingers wrapped around him once more and began to stroke.

John dropped his head, now too absorbed in feeling. Alcohol had now taken over completely, making his vision blurry and his thoughts hazy. All he could focus on was the pleasure that rippled through him with every stroke and attempting to control the repetitive moans Mycroft was drawing from his body.

Mycroft set a comfortable rhythm, his hand already slick with lube, he stroked the entire length of John's cock with a certain degree of elegancy. He was still teasing him, increasing the pressure then dropping it again after a moment. Mycroft was now so highly aroused by John's reactions, that he also began to groan in time to the strokes. At this sound John threw his head back against the bed. He couldn't do it anymore, he gave up on controlling himself, and the moans were now allowed to escape freely from his mouth. This is what he wanted.

"Fuck yes. This is- oh my god. Fuck." he stuttered, he was even more aroused at the fact that Mycroft still had his hands pinned up above him. His eyelids fluttered shut as Mycroft leant down further, closing the heat in on John. Mycroft then changed the angle of his wrist, allowing him to speed up the movements of his hand, his fist practically pumping John's cock now. John felt a flutter of breath on his cheek and he realised Mycroft was moving past it to get to his ear. Their faces weren't even touching, yet John still felt every cell in his cheek tingle with sensation.  

"You're such a good boy." Mycroft cooed, whispering the words directly into John's ear.

John moaned louder, trying to arch his back up to push into Mycroft's touch.

"Are you glad you came now, have I made it worth it for you." Mycroft sped up his hand even more and began pulling over the tip so he could use John's pre-cum as extra lube.

"Oh my fucking god" John hissed. His moans so fast paced and loud they seemed to be merging into one.

"You've been so obedient for me. Haven't you. Just how a good little fuck boy should behave. You've been so, so good." Mycroft purred softly. His words ringing through John's mind.

John's panted harder than ever, his eyes rolling to the back of his head in pure arousal. He was close now.

"Come on John, you can let go now. It's been too long for you, hasn't it. You need to let go. That's it. Come for me now" Mycroft's moved from John's ear down to his neck, and began to bite softly at John's pulse point.

That was it.

It was all more than enough for John. Mycroft's words had finally pushed him over the edge. He let out one last desperation filled moan, before throwing his head back and coming. He saw stars. Everything disappeared, Mycroft, the room, the sounds that he was making. In that moment all senses were completely wasted on John. All he could feel was the spectacular sensation of his orgasm pulsing through him. He rode on it, letting it out, everything he had left.

John felt completely undone.

He saw it all the way through, panting and moaning and thrusting right until there was nothing left, and there he could have stayed, so lost in it all if it weren't for the gentle release of his arms from above his head and the soft sound of Mycroft's voice that, slowly, ever so slowly, brought him back to reality.

"That was wonderful John. How perfect you were for me." Mycroft whispered, the words rolling off his tongue so smoothly.

John kept his eyes shut, still panting heavily, his world was spinning. A corner of his brain told him he must look a dreadful state right now. Sweaty, sticky and dirty but he didn't care. He didn’t have it within him to care at all at the moment, the emotional ability had left him.

Exhaustion suddenly set in like a one ton weight had just been dropped on his shoulders. He tried to move his arm but his limbs were numb from the intense wave of feelings he'd just experienced. With vision that was now even more blurred than before, and a black fuzz beginning to cloud in from the corners of his eyes. He guessed he would pass out soon. He was too drunk, too overwhelmed in feeling. He forced himself to blink hard, open his eyes and try and focus on Mycroft's face. He was saying something but John couldn't quite make it out anymore.

"...John?...are you okay?...John..."

"Uhmn" John tried to murmur in response.

No luck. It was all blurring and he cursed himself for the timing. Now sure that he was actually going to pass out, guilt began to swarm him as he realised Mycroft would get nothing back. He desperately tried harder to stop his eyes from closing, it was no use.

He stammered in frustration "I….uhmm..I..."

"You've had far too much to drink" Mycroft chuckled.

"I wan - want to" John stuttered.

He wanted to give something back, to get Mycroft off too. To fuck him in return, show him how amazing that had just been for him. But he just...couldn't.

Mycroft's head tilted in concern. "Want to? What? What John?" The tone of his voice rising slightly in alarm.

John murmured helplessly.

"John?" Mycroft tried again, his hands cupping John's cheeks.

He was slipping. After struggling for a further minute to decipher Mycroft's words and keep his eyes open, John decided to give up on being decent and let himself go. With a heaving sigh he finally allowed his eyelids to fall shut.

The last thing he heard was Mycroft's soothing low voice flowing through his head. He felt hands holding his face, stroking his hair and smoothing it back from his forehead. John would have felt content, maybe even happy, but sadly he just didn't have it within him to feel anymore, instead he just slipped away, naked, wrists still bound in front of him, cradled like a baby in Mycroft's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so, much if you read all of that! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Don't worry, this isn't over yet. Most certainly not. I'll add the next chapter as soon as I can!


	3. The morning after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So I have to apologise, I said this next chapter would be up quickly and that hasn't happened. In my defense I went away for two weeks without wifi and was unable to post anything. However you will be pleased to know that this chapter is very long and I have written at least two others and planned out the entire storyline for this work so you guys have that all to come, soon, I hope. Enjoy ;)

John fell in and out of restless sleep. His dreams seemed to be just as blurred as the night before. Several passed through his head over the course of the night, there were glimpses of Sherlock and Baker street, even some of his army days flew before him. Nothing solid, just snippets, a crooked grin from a fellow soldier, or the feel of crisp paper between his fingers from when he would play cards with the lads in the evenings to pass the time. All of these whipped through his head and were forgotten almost instantly.

However there was one exception, he wished he could pat his twisted imagination on the back for the last dream he had, this particular, unbearably well-crafted dream, was as clear as morning air on a frost ridden day. Dreams, well, when they were like this, nightmares, haunted him now. Since Sherlock had been gone and his entire life turned upside down in grief and mourning, dreams, he would say, were the worst part of it. They latched onto his sadness in the ugliest form of disease and swarmed his mind in the way moths would a lone flame. He would have one almost every night, and each would be different, each time his mind would find a way spinning that harrowing day into something new.

This time, was by far the worst yet. This time he dreamt he was on Bart’s rooftop, instead of Sherlock.

John looked down at his feet, his shoes were just an inch away from the edge, exactly how he imagined Sherlock’s had been. Although reversed, the situation was the painfully accurate. Everything was the same, the weather, the background hum of London, the wind blowing on his cheeks. John felt it all.

He surveyed the view in front of him. Sherlock was dashing from a cab, beginning to run across the pavement in front of the ambulance station, just as John had done.

John felt the phone cold against his ear and heard himself speak.

“Turn around and walk back the way you came.”

“No, I’m coming in”

“Just do as I ask. Please.” John's voice was stern, and then desperate.

“Where?” Sherlock questioned, his voice suddenly timid.

“Stop there. Okay. Now look up I’m on the rooftop.” John replied, his voice mirroring the tone and weight that Sherlock’s had.

“Oh god” Sherlock whispered.

“I...I...I can’t come down so we’ll just have to do it like this.”

“What’s going on?” Sherlock's voice was anxious, desperate.

John felt his heart begin to break.

“A confession, it’s all true” He choked out.

“Wh-what?” Sherlock stuttered.

“Everything. Everything that you suspected.”

“Why are you saying this?”

John felt his eyes prick with tears. He knew his face was now raw with emotion, pain splitting through him and causing his chest to burn. It was all the same.

"It's fake. Everything we have." he cried out, his voice cracking. Tears began to roll mercifully down his cheeks, one dripped from his chin.

"John..."

"Our love Sherlock!...it's a trick. Just a magic trick." John didn’t want to believe it but as he spoke the words aloud, in his dream they became true. He watched as Sherlock pulled the phone away from his ear briefly, shaking his head in utter disbelief before placing it back again.

"No. Alright, stop it now." Sherlock pleaded. His voice was small, so small, quieter than John had ever heard it. He watched as Sherlock began to move and walk forward.

“No, stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.” John heard himself command.

“Alright.” Sherlock’s free hand flew up in retreat.

John’s voice became manic. “Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?”

“Do what?”

“This phone call- it’s….er, it's my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?”

“Leave a note when?”

"Goodbye Sherlock"

John brought his face up, his eyes leaving Sherlock's face for what he knew would be the last time. He stared straight ahead with a plain solemn expression, before dropping his hand from his ear and throwing his phone down behind him. There was no time to hear it clatter against the concrete. In his head John was screaming, battering helplessly on the glass cage of his mind but it was no use, he couldn't stop his actions and before he knew it he was already holding out his arms and taking one last breath, before gracefully leaning out and tipping himself over the edge.

Time grew slow. He heard Sherlock cry out his name in a deafening yell and it thrummed right to the core of him, serving as the final blow that caused John's heart to shatter into a million different pieces.

Besides the feelings of emotional devastation that were absorbing his mind like a raging fire, John was still falling. The feeling was so unbelievably real. Although it was a dream, he could feel the air battering his face, whooshing past his ears and blocking out all other sounds. His coat flew out behind him, in the perfect reflection. He continued to plummet downwards for what appeared to be an eternity, before, instead of hitting the cold wet pavement as he expected, the dream shifted. In an instant, everything went black. Bart’s and Sherlock gone. Yet he was still falling….falling...hard onto a…bed. Everything he had just witnessed had vanished, his surroundings changed completely and now….John realised he was lying face down on a bed in a hotel room.

He looked up.

There was Mycroft. Naked and reaching out to him. John felt horror flood through every part of his body. He had _chosen_ Mycroft. Chosen _him_ over Sherlock. He screamed and-

Darkness.

He must have woken himself up, a regular occurrence. No... wait. He could feel someone shaking him, their hand on his side.

“John...? John.”

Mycroft’s voice. John lay completely still, briefly he feeling a wave of confusion wash over him, why was Mycroft with him?

With a mind that was scattered all over the place, still very much intoxicated and only deluded further still by sleep. John desperately attempted to contemplate matters further, but he didn’t stand a chance, before he knew it, sleep dragged him down back under, the murky depths of unconsciousness consuming his mind and body once again.

*

He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he woke. Slowly, so slowly he came to terms with his consciousness. The dream had long faded leaving only hurt behind. After a couple of heavy breaths, John came to realise he was curled up in a sweaty and sticky ball, his knees drawn up tight against his chest. He peeled a heavy eyelid open and peered through it hazily. The sheets were not his own. They were soft clean- hotel sheets. _Oh god._ He remembered where he was. What he'd done the night before, it all came rushing back to him. _Oh...god._ He was surprised to feel a tingling sensation beginning to build in his groin at the memory of how good it was- how hard he had came. The way it had felt when Mycroft had so smoothly used those seductive words to send him plummeting over the edge.

But...then there was the memory of the dream, so fresh in his mind, still so painful. He winced.

Pushing the thoughts away he attempted to lift his head and uncurl his knees from his chest, but pain shot to his skull in an instant. Ouch. He was maybe slightly hungover. He decided to lie still and regain his strength temporarily before trying again. The memories from last night were fuzzy, but he remembered one thing. This was not how he fell asleep. John strained as he slowly became more awake, trying to piece together the scraps of what had happened last night, right before he had passed out. He'd just finished, and then Mycroft was leaning over him, whispering wonderful things into his ear, butterflies fluttered in his stomach at the memory. Then he remembered trying to stay awake for him and- ah that was it, he must have gone. But, he was on top of the covers when that happened? And his arms? He was certain they had still been tied together when he passed out.

He felt a quick wave of panic rise in his chest at the unknown but relief followed in an instant. He guessed that Mycroft must have softly untied his arms and gently maneuvered him under the covers and into bed. Hm.

Once a minute or so had passed John decided to face the pain, stretching his legs out and lifting the covers from his head. The sunlight that streamed in from the immense windows was dazzlingly bright, knocking his vision out of focus and momentarily blinding him. When his eyes did, at last, adjust John couldn't stop his jaw from dropping once again at the sight of the room. The windows were proudly presenting the magnificent view of the city, which was almost more impressive in daylight.

He sighed, knowing a shower was probably the best thing for him at the moment. With great effort he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He was about to make his way to the bathroom, when he noticed a notepad on the dresser by the window. Admittedly he didn't take much of his surroundings in yesterday, but he was certain that that wasn't there. Curiosity got the better of him and he padded over and peered down at the paper. Scrawled writing covered the page.

"Good morning, John. Sorry I couldn't be there with you when you finally wake up, countries don't run themselves you know. I imagine you're quite hungover, therefore I arranged for an exquisite full English breakfast along with what they assure me will be good coffee to come to the room about 11.30. Hope that helps. I will be with you shortly. M"

John looked up at the clock on the wall. 11.27. He shook his head in disbelief, how could the bastard be so right all the time? Christ, he was still very much in the nude. Instinctively he placed a hand around his most private parts and quickly scanned the room for his clothes, no luck. Fuck’s sake. Mycroft must have tidied them away or something. John couldn't help but begin to feel panicked, for he was really not feeling up to an embarrassing naked encounter with an unfortunate member of staff on this _particular_ morning. He dashed into the en suite and let out an audible gasp - it was alike the main room, luxurious and enormous!- but, time was not something John currently had the privilege of sparing and he began rummaging around frantically for a bathrobe or dressing gown - anything! Fortunately a very fine silk one of the latter came into contact with his fingertips and he decided that would do.

He slipped it on, and before he could become idle there was a knock on the door. _Ah_. This would be good.

A lean, dark-haired waiter pulled the shining silver tray into the room and set it beside the dresser near the window.

"There you are sir, anything else I could get for you?"

Hm, his voice was sexy John thought.

"Ummm, coffee?" John questioned, reminded of what he really wanted by the ache that constantly thrummed in his head.

"Of course sir, it's on the bottom tray."

In fact, all of him was sexy. He was young and tanned with deep brown hazel eyes that glistened with youth, the rich colour of them perfectly matching his wavy mouse brown hair, which was flicked in a modern style across his forehead. His figure was also very good, with his muscular arms and toned arse being quite complemented by the hotel uniform. John looked him up and down greedily. Making no gesture to hide his gaze.

"Would that be all sir?" The waiter asked, flashing John a cheeky grin.

"Um..." John hesitated, biting his lip. He allowed his eyes to wander casually to the waiter's crotch.

"Sir?"

John realised he was staring and looked up quickly.

The waiter returned his look with dancing eyes.

"Um... yes. That's all thank you." John finally decided. What was he doing? He was not going to flirt with this man, his situation was bad enough as it is.

"Okay well if there's anything, let me know." The waiter said, flashing John a wink as he left the room.

“Oh, I will...” John called after him, not being able to stop a flirtatious tone running through his words.

Well. Maybe he hadn't lost all his looks after all.

Anyway breakfast.

John tucked in, a fine spread lay before him and he was in no position to turn it down, he was starving. After several rounds of hot food and a couple of pieces of toast, he was full. The coffee wasn't bad either. With his headache clearing he was beginning to feel better already.

He finished up, and headed to the well-needed shower. Grogginess clung to him after yesterday and his hair needed a good wash. Once in there he took his time, letting the warm water wash over him. They calmed him, showers and baths, well more baths but anyway. Washing himself had always been his weird kind of retreat. He found them incredibly soothing and relaxing, having always been able to think much more clearly in a steamy bath than in any place. As he washed, he checked his body for any evidence of the night before and appeared to be all clear, apart from one vaguely handprint shaped mark on the left cheek of his arse. A very small moan escaped from his mouth at the sight of it, the erotic memory leaping back at him, making his cock harden slightly, even now. Suddenly, his mind was taken over with memories from the night before, there was no denying it had been....well, good. Yet to his dismay It had all happened so fast, although he recalled that was mainly because he had been so bloody horny and desperate, oops. Then there was the way it ended, christ. Now he came to think about he was still annoyed at himself at passing out like that. A small feeling of guilt nabbed at him like an irritating wasp on a summers day. It wasn’t fair really, getting his fix and then just dropping off like that, completely fucking out of it. Although he guessed he couldn’t have helped it, hopefully Mycroft knew that. At the thought of Mycroft, John wondered what time he would be back, it didn’t specify on the note.

“I will be with you shortly” It had said. But when was that? Did Mycroft expect him to hang around here all day? But then again he couldn’t just leave after….well, after that. Could he?

He pondered on this thought for so long until he realised his fingertips were becoming wrinkled from the water. He washed the last of the soap from his hair and stepped out into a towel.

“John?”

Oh. He needn’t have worried, the question had answered itself.

“I’m in the shower!” He called.

The bathroom door clicked open. John spun around, the towel still wrapped around his waist.

“Hey! You can’t-”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Leaning on the door frame in a pompous pose “It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before”. He smirked.

John felt himself blush, finding he had nothing to say back.

"Well." Mycroft stole one last deliberately slow glance over John's body. "I suppose I better let you get dressed...." his voice held an element of laughter.

"Yeah that's a thought!" John quipped. "What have you done with my bloody clothes!”

Mycroft only winked coyly before shutting the door.

"You bastard!" 

He rushed forward, yanking the door back open and following Mycroft out into the main room, still only in his towel.

Mycroft was already pulling one of the draws open in the dresser by the window.

"I thought you would have looked in here. It wasn't a particularly difficult leap" Mycroft chuckled before chucking John his clothes.

"I was busy." John huffed.

"Flirting?" Mycroft quipped, his eyebrows rising in amusement once more.

John's eyes grew wide in shock.

"No! I didn't! How did you-"

"I spoke to him on the way up" Mycroft assured him jokingly. "He said I was a very lucky man..."

John gulped and looked away. He hoped Mycroft didn't think that... they were, well, together. Just because they'd- you know- didn't mean they were a thing.

He considered voicing this thought aloud but then decided against it. Instead, he let a moment silence fall over them.

Mycroft held the silence before nodding towards the clothes he'd just thrown.

"Anyway...I'll let you..." his voice trailed off.

John nodded back and began actually drying himself properly and putting on his clothes, trying to refrain from turning away from Mycroft completely. He knew that he'd already seen his body but, now without the influence of alcohol, he felt strangely insecure.

The was a long silence between them as John dressed, but it wasn't awkward. Mycroft sat himself down in one of the armchairs and John was secretly very thankful, as it meant he wasn't facing him. John noted that he was wearing one of his more smart business type suits. A really important meeting this morning then. He silently took the opportunity to admire Mycroft’s clothing. Underneath a sleek overcoat there was a dark striped waistcoat and a white shirt, paired perfectly with slim black trousers and polished shoes. But John had to admit his favourite part was always going to be the red tie, which was done up in a perfect small knot around Mycroft's neck. John had always found suits and formal wear sexy. It occurred to him that he hadn't, to date, actually seen Mycroft in anything other than smart clothing. He chuckled to himself, it was a funny thought actually, Mycroft in jeans.

Just as John was doing up the final buttons on his shirt, Mycroft interrupted John’s thoughts.

"I didn't know you had....dreams." He said, his voice low and gentle.

John’s cheeks flushed scarlet. "Well, I- "

"Sherlock did mention it once," Mycroft interrupted, "but I never realised..." he slowly got up from the chair and turned around, moving towards John so that they were facing each other.

"Yes." John stammered. "They're quite-" He cleared his throat to stop his voice from shaking.

“You were screaming.”

John’s head dropped in horror. How embarrassing, he must have heard everything. A long moment passed, and then Mycroft spoke again.

"What was it about?" he questioned, leaning in closer to John.

"Um," all the horrific memories of his dream flashed back at him, simply impossible to erase.

"Go on" Mycroft encouraged softly, his hand reaching out to stroke John's shoulder.

John only felt pain at the touch, he flinched, his heart swelling as he replayed the horrific events of his dream. Despite his movement of distress Mycroft's hand remained, and his thumb began to trace small circles at the top of John's shoulder.

"I was on the roof....in-instead of Sherlock and-" John found himself choking on every syllable.  "And I told him, what we had wa-was....fake." he finally spat out. His emphasis on the word “fake” much more prominent than he had intended.

"John,"

Mycroft's comforting words could not save him now. It was already done. John felt tears begin to well in his eyes. _My god_.  He cursed himself. How fucking pathetic.

"John no, don't, I'm sorry" Mycroft began to blurt out. His brows knotting tightly together in concern.

John just turned his head, wishing he could be as far away from Mycroft as possible. As far away as he could from anybody. He wished with every nerve in his body that he didn't have those fucking dreams. It was like having to relive that day over and over, _every_ night, except each time was only more painful.

Mycroft’s hand dropped hesitantly from his shoulder, although John was looking away he could tell Mycroft’s eyes were on him, he could feel them burning into his head. Probably deducing how pathetic he was, John thought. Just bloody gazing at down at him with those sorrowful eyes, pitying him, like everyone had done after Sherlock’s death. John hated it. Anger began to run through him like an ocean current.

“Don’t fucking pity me.” he spat.

“John, I-” Mycroft reached out, extending his arm with the intention of cupping John’s cheek and bringing it to face him.

John flinched. He did not bat Mycroft's hand away, but he held his stance and refused to turn his cheek to face him.

“Don’t.” John's voice was small, barely coming out as a whisper. His body was tense and his jaw was set hard, eyelids blinking rapidly to keep back tears.

“Please,” Mycroft's touch was ever so gentle, and he continued to let the palm of his hand cup John's jaw.

There was something so desperately pleading in Mycroft’s voice, that John felt the wall of anger he had just built up begin to melt away instantly. He released a deep breath he didn’t know he had been holding, and, after a moment, slowly allowed Mycroft to tilt his cheek.

Their eyes connected. Mycroft’s pupils were wide, but his eyelids were heavy and slanted, creating what was the most sorrowful expression John had ever seen on his face. John stared at him through watering eyes and then realised the ones looking back at him were doing the same. Mycroft's eyes were _actually_ watering and then, suddenly, John felt arms reaching around him, sliding over his shoulders and bundling him into a tight hug.

At first John didn't react, he just stood there, dazed and dumbfounded. He couldn't believe he was receiving an act of affection from a man who he didn't think was capable of really giving it. He stood like a manikin for a long few seconds before slowly lifting his arms and curling them around Mycroft's back. He wasn’t stopping to think about his actions, it just felt right. He could feel something inside of him releasing, and John completely let go of whatever it was that had been holding him back. He sank into Mycroft's arms, his head dropping down into the perfect spot between Mycroft's neck and shoulder with a loud sigh.

And there they stood, clung to each other. John's arms were so tight around Mycroft's back he was afraid he was hurting him, but equally far too afraid to let go. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a proper hug, one that really meant something, and it was only now that he realised just how much he had missed it. The feeling of warmth and security that now surrounded him beginning instantly to heal the deep-rooted ache that had long made home in his chest.

Mycroft nuzzled down and lowered his chin so he could rest it on the groove of John's shoulder.

"I miss him too you know." He whispered, his voice tender and hollow.

John only nodded into Mycroft's chest. He had no words. He doubted he'd be able to speak right now even if he wanted too.

Mycroft brought up his hand and traced his fingertips up along the back of John's neck until he was stroking the soft wave of John's hair in a light touch.

"It will be alright..."

John sniffed. His face still squished into Mycroft's shoulder. His nose rubbed against the fabric of Mycroft's shirt and John took his scent in gladly with every breath he inhaled. Mycroft smelt mainly of posh colone and aftershave but if John tried hard enough, underneath all that he could smell the musky scent that was just, Mycroft. The precise smell of it was a difficult one to describe, and the first thing John matched it with was the unique smell of the inside of a grand manor house on a rainy day, or maybe the husky smell of a room that had been stood still for a very long time, musky, but comforting and homely. It was what John had smelt last night, right before he had passed out. It was the last thing he remembered, and now he realised it was the one thing that had made him feel content and safe.

How he felt now.

For the first time since Sherlock had jumped, John felt a small glimmer of hope flickered a light inside him. Maybe it would be okay, maybe he would be able to move on someday, maybe the rest of his life wouldn't be spent how the last 11 months had been. Sherlock wasn't coming back, and maybe one day, just one day, that could be okay.

"Maybe." John whispered in reply. His voice as quiet as the heartbeat that drummed softly inside of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this! I really, really hope you liked it, I found this chapter was quite hard to write, and I pray that you didn't find it too boring. I would also love to hear your feedback on how I could improve this or any of the other chapters I have written so far. I'm just testing the water as a writer at the moment and any constructive feedback is always welcome. Thank you <3


	4. An unexpected twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft meet up for the second time, but things don't go exactly to plan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I really hope you enjoy this chapter as it has some cheeky character development and plot thrown in there (Yes, I've got a whole story planned out for this now!). It's quite long but don't fear there is smut on the horizon, as you will soon see ;) Anyway, enjoy!

John tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk in front of him, glaring at his phone with envious temptation. He had paused mid report to stare at it once again. Still no text. He sighed and dragged his focused back to the medical report he was filling out on the computer. His day at the surgery had been a long and miraculously dull one, with the most entertaining thing to occur being Sarah's failed attempted to flirt with him in the staff break room at lunch. He hadn't been in any position to notice it at first but about 6 months after Sherlock had jumped, Sarah had been back at it again, flirting with him as if the entire blind banker case fiasco hadn't even happened, let alone his (not so platonic) relationship with Sherlock, not that she knew about that, but still. He had to say he'd been more than a little disinterested, in fact he was incredibly blunt with her. As boredom threatened to rot his insides, he found himself running back over it, replaying it in his head.

 

* * *

 

"Oh..." John gazed down in confusion at the warm cup of tea Sarah had just randomly handed him, he hadn't asked for it.

"You don't have to look too terrified, it's only tea" Sarah joked, although John sensed just a small hint of concern in her voice.

"Right...um...thanks" John replied flatly, annoyed that she had interrupted one his many daydreams, of which recently Mycroft always seemed to be the subject.

Sarah's over eager smile continued. "So, any tricky patients today?" She asked, fiddling with her hair.

John shook his head, looking past her for some form of escape.

"Well, I had a man who was so disorientated, halfway through the appointment he tried to tidy away my papers!"

"Oh" John murmured, blatantly unamused.

"Yes!" Sarah laughed, spurring herself on, "Thought he was in his kitchen or something! Grumbling about how it's always a mess"

"Great" John whistled in a sarcastic tone.

Sarah gave an awkward laugh, and if there was more to the story, John decided he didn't want to hear it.

"Well if that's all th-" he made to push past her and escape away to the privacy of his appointment room, but she stopped him, putting a gentle hand on the top of his shoulder.

"John" she said softly, her voice as sweet as honey.

"Uh" John stepped back again, groaning inside at his failed attempt at freedom.

Sarah was looking into his eyes with an expression John was sure was intended to convey all friendly forms of emotions such as comfort and condolence, but all John saw was venomous pity. He clenched his fists, sensing the familiar tightness of anger returning to chest.

"Is everything okay? With you, I mean?" Her kind eyes burned into John's and he dropped them to the floor, defeated.

"It's...fine." he murmured.

"It doesn't seem fine, you're not the cheery John I used to know, at the moment-"

"Yeah? Well things have changed." John snapped, the words a sharp burst of anger that escaped from his mouth much faster than he could control them.

Sarah appeared shocked into silence.

There was a deathly pause, and John realised the damage.

"Sorry," He added meekly, still avoiding her eyes. "Shit morning."

"It's okay..." Sarah breathed slowly.

John cupped his tea, taking a small sip, unsure of what to say next.

"You know if you need someone, you can always kip at mine again, if you want- like last time" A blush crept in from the corners of her cheeks and she stuttered on her words slightly. John almost felt sorry for her, he didn't even deserve her, god knows why she was still interested anyway.

"No honestly, Sarah it's fine. Thanks - but I've got to go now" he said quickly, before slipping past her and scuttling away back to the safety of his room at last.

 

* * *

 

Thinking back over the conversation, John realised now he had been harsh and incredibly sour. Maybe he was over thinking things (as usual) and she didn't have some hidden sexual motive and was simply trying to be friendly. He let his head fall into his hands, he would have to apologise to her later.

Apparently unable to remain distracted for more than two minutes, he glanced at his phone once again, still nothing.

It was shameful really, it had only been a mere three days since they'd met at the hotel and he was feeling weak already. He wanted to be strong. Tell himself he didn't need to see Mycroft, but that would be a lie. The awful truth was, having sex with Mycroft had quite literally been the most breathtakingly exhilarating thing to happen to John since Sherlock had jumped. He didn't even feel embarrassed by the unexpected, rather baffling emotional disaster towards the end. It had actually been rather affirming, sharing tears together and grieving in unity. After that not much else was said and they politely went their separate ways. Mycroft muttering something about having to get back to work and John was still so overwhelmed that he’d been more than grateful to finally go home. It was only now that he realised that that night must have been the first time in nearly 10 months that he was too exhausted to cry himself to sleep.

John looked at his phone again, before reaching over and picking it up. He flicked the keyboard up and down repeatedly, he’d thought about texting first, but every time he began to type a message, his fingers froze. It seemed he was trapped in an inescapable bubble of anxiety and guilt, and besides, why hadn’t Mycroft texted him? He’d arranged everything last time, did he not want to see him again? Was it because he didn’t give Mycroft anything back? John didn’t know.

It was nearly 5.30, the end of his shift. He went to shut down his computer but before he could a message popped up.

**_'Contents hidden. Click here to view... John'_ **

John’s mouth fell open, he read it again, several times in frantic disbelief. Only one person would use his name like that; and they hadn't? Hacked into his- surely they would just text.

He clicked on the underlined words and it brought up a smaller text box, which held another message.

**‘ _A car is waiting outside M_ ’**

John let out a small gasp, tracing the words with his mouse. _At last._ John looked for some nature of protest at Mycroft’s chosen form of communication but there was no option to do anything else, all he could do was click the OK button beneath it.

 

* * *

 

 

Anthea greeted him as usual, barely looking up from her phone, but for once that didn't bother John in the slightest. She was not who he was here for.

It appeared the journey wasn't as long as John was expecting and he blinked as the car slowed and pulled up outside a small but stately building. It was not one he'd met Mycroft in before and didn’t appear to be a hotel. The building was shorter than its neighbours but no less well kept. It had a very angular outlook and perfectly aligned square windows revealed it went up three floors. To the left there was a narrow archway concealing an oak framed door. John would almost describe it as quaint, but he knew Mycroft didn't do quaint, and he had yet to go inside.

He muttered thanks to the driver and made his way to the door, smiling to himself as he felt the veins in his body begin to flood with the familiar ecstasy of adrenaline, god how he had missed that feeling.

 

* * *

 

 

Once inside, it took John less than a minute to march through the first room and make his way down a narrow oak panelled corridor where he presumed Mycroft would be.

"You're ridiculous." John said as he laid eyes on him. His voice coming out half angry, half amused as he marched up to where Mycroft was sat poised in a chair, whisky in hand.

John was glad Mycroft had chosen a secluded spot, somewhere where light intimacy would go unnoticed. For the place Mycroft was sat was tucked away in the corner behind a large wooden bookcase.

"In times like these John, one must learn to be discreet." Mycroft answered as John approached.

John stopped and cocked his head to the side, placing his hands on his hips. "No. No one looks at my phone Mycroft, you could have just texted me!"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in the way John was beginning to know so well. "Can you really be sure of that?" He replied in a pretentious tone.

John rolled his eyes dramatically. "Of course I am! You and your bloody power complex."

Mycroft ignored the comment and simply gestured towards the seat beside him. "Sit."

John hated being told what to do, (outside the bedroom) but he was so glad to be in Mycroft's company at last that he obeyed, plonking himself down on the leather chair.

However, an awkward silence strung itself between them, for it seemed they’d both been so focused on the invigorating prospect of seeing each other again that now they were actually together, neither of them had a clue what to say.

It was Mycroft who finally broke the silence. "How was your...er" He cleared his throat. "Your...day?"

"Fine."

"Stimulating?"

John scoffed. "Hardly."

"I see."

The awkward silence blanketed them once more.

John knew it was his turn to make conversation but it appeared his loss for words was quite inescapable. He watched as Mycroft took another sip of his drink, _ah, there was an idea._

"Could I...er" He gestured towards Mycroft's glass.

"Of course. My apologies, I should have offered." Mycroft picked up the bottle on the dresser beside him and poured John a drink.

"Thanks"

"So" Mycroft began as he set the bottle back on the dresser. "The day is not yet over."

"I suppose"

"We could do something to make it a bit more stimulating...if you like..."

John's eyes widened and he nearly spat out his drink. "Sorry?"

Mycroft coughed, and John marveled as he saw what was possibly the slightest blush creep in on Mycroft's cheeks.

After an embarrassed pause and he said, "Forgive me, it appears that was ambitiously forward of me."

John stayed silent for a long few seconds, staring solidly at the spine of one of the books opposite them. For all the things he expected one of the most dangerous men he'd ever met to say, _that_ , was not one of them. He tried to pull his eyebrows down from where they were set ridiculously high on his forehead and focus on his reply.

After a gulp he finally managed to stutter. "N-no...that is...I mean, that could be..." John's eyebrows narrowed as he tried to think of the right word. "...fine, good even."

"Really?" Mycroft didn't hide the surprise in his voice.

"Mmm," John murmured.

Mycroft turned and looked him straight in the eyes for what would be the first time since the conversation had started. His pupils were wide in the dim light and they flickered quickly as his eyes darted over John's face, reading him in the exact same way Sherlock used to. His palms were clasped together just underneath his mouth, mirroring the pose Sherlock always used to pull when he was figuring something out.

"Sure?" Mycroft asked again.

The similarities between the man he was looking at and Sherlock made the awful truth of what John was actually doing very real. Tingling guilt began to take over John's mind and suddenly he felt very uncomfortable. Maybe that's what made him blurt out his next words, for they seemed to escape on their own accord, coming out much faster than his mind had time to control them.

"Yeah but, no kissing no soppy stuff...and no...um anything else. Just sex." He stated, clearing his throat awkwardly. That was it, those were his rules, Mycroft needed to know that this wasn't a loving-type relationship. They met up, they fucked, they went home. Simple. No strings attached.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, studying John carefully. "If that's what you want."

John nodded, scrunching his fingers nervously, he couldn't bear the fact that Mycroft was still watching him, looking and reading straight through his mind like he was simply transparent. He pushed up from the chair quickly, realising he either wanted to do this right now, or go home. He was done with chatting.

"Where are we going then?"

Mycroft looked slightly startled, looking up to John quizzically. "Now?"

"Yup. Right now. Then I'm going home." John announced. Mycroft may have been in control of the arrangements last time, but John decided he wasn't going to be pushed around unintentionally today.

Mycroft paused for a moment looking hesitant, but then his face cleared and he rose slowly from his chair.

"Follow me."

Mycroft's hand reached out towards him and for a second John wondered if Mycroft was suggesting they held hands but the thought evaporated as quickly as it had arrived as Mycroft moved past him only to swoop up the Whisky bottle that was still placed on the dresser. Then without a second glance, Mycroft walked away from John and towards the door. John followed, surprised his request had actually been successful.

They went down several corridors and up a flight of stairs, and John had to say he was impressed, he'd been right earlier, this building was far from quaint and the outside had cleverly hidden it's true size and grandeur. _New rule_ , he thought, _never underestimate Mycroft_.

They passed no one and said nothing until they reached a small hallway which was shielding the entrance to another narrow corridor with several rooms lining it.

John paused and looked over his shoulder cautiously.

"Can we...do this here? I didn't think it was a hotel." He asked.

"Shh." Mycroft warned, flicking his hand in John's direction as he busied himself peering down the corridor and into several dark rooms.

John raised his eyebrows at being told to 'shh.' He had just opened his mouth to tell Mycroft where to fucking go when he was interrupted once more.

"Wait here. Don't move"  Mycroft commanded, and with that, he stalked off down the dim corridor, umbrella still in hand.

"What?!" John called after him, finding it very hard to constrain his voice to a whisper. He clenched his fists and watched as the man he was about to have sex with disappeared from view round the corner.

Grudgingly, John slumped against the wall, guessing there was nothing he could do other than obey Mycroft and wait, for he didn't know his way around and would probably get lost without him.

It was only a matter of seconds before John heard footsteps start to embark on the staircase behind him. Oh god. He really couldn't be bothered to make up an explanation for his presence and he didn't really want to use Mycroft as an excuse in case it got him into some kind of deep water. Maybe he could just-

Without much thought John darted across the hall and threw himself into one of the darkened rooms. He stepped into the shadows as he moved behind the door and then froze still for a second so he could hear where the men were heading.

The sound of a hushed, low, rough voice rang out into the silence. "Err I think this one's free. Yeah, it is. Quick in here there's no one about, we can talk freely."

 _Fuck._ It sounded like they were coming into the room he was in. "Shit." John cursed under his breath. He should have just stayed in the corridor, now he would look even weirder for there was no way he could use Mycroft to explain why he was couched behind the door in a darkened office room.

Realising he didn't have much time, he tried as silently as possible to scramble around in the darkness for somewhere to hide, but it was too dark, his eyes hadn't had the chance to focus and he could hardly make anything out.

He winced as the footsteps grew closer to the door, knowing it was only a matter of seconds before he got caught, but suddenly the footsteps stopped and paused, this time a different voice spoke.

"Wait, Nick, are you sure we won't be taped in here."

 _Taped?_ It didn't sound like they were supposed to be here either.

There was a long pause.

"Yeah....yeah, I'm sure, I remember I've been in here before."

Luckily this brief interval had given John's eyes time to adjust and now he could just about spot the door to a large cupboard on his left, he darted towards it and bundled himself inside, pulling the door shut just as the light flickered on.

"Did you hear that?"

"What?"

 _Fuck fuck fuck._ They'd heard the door. John clamped his hand over his mouth to conceal the sound of his breathing. It was pitch black in the cupboard but he could still just about hear the men moving.

"I'm sure I heard-"

"You didn't. You're being paranoid. Now we need to be quick."

_Thank god._

He heard the men move to the center of the room and there was the scrape of chairs before they began talking in hushed tones.

John sat forward, normally he'd hate to be eavesdropping but he was in army mode and on full alert, he knew when a  conversation wasn't supposed to be happening.

"Have you talked to-" The words went muffled. Damn. They must have lowered their voices further. John tried to press his ear against the door.

"...Economic crisis..." John could only make out occasional words now "...Ashton down..."

He strained harder.

"...limited access....this time next year...persuade the PM..."

And then another voice.

"John?"

Mycroft. Calling for him in the corridor, he must have come back looking for him, after all they were supposed to be having sex right now, not playing hide and seek!

The muffled voices went quiet instantly.

"John.....?" Mycroft's voice again, louder this time, and then,

"Oh."

There was an awkward cough.

"What are you two doing in here?" Mycroft’s hostile voice echoed across the room, covering everything in a blanket of ice.

"Just..." The stranger's voice stopped and there was a bitter pause. "Actually, I don't think it's any of your business."

John could just picture Mycroft's eyebrows rising off his head.

"Excuse me?" Mycroft said smoothly.

"I could ask you the same question, in fact I will, why are _you_ here Mycroft?"

John let out a small gasp. He didn't know who these men were, but he'd never come across anyone who'd tried to override Mycroft's authority before.

John could just about hear a faint scoff.

"I will leave that to your imagination, but for the meantime, I do think you two should leave."

"Who's John?" The daring voice of the unknown man continued.

"No one." Mycroft stated plainly. "Certainly not someone of importance."

 _Oh._ A small stab of pain punctured John's chest, and hurt began to seep from the wound.

"John Darlington? I didn't know you associated with him?" John could almost see the poisonous laughter he imagined was on the stranger's face.

"I don't. This is another John and definitely not your concern, now if you would please."

John pictured Mycroft gesturing towards the door.

"Till the next time Mr Holmes."

Mycroft's grimace was clear as his voice sounded as though it was coming through gritted teeth.

"I look forward to it."

John then heard footsteps heading away from the room. He wanted to leap out and reveal himself to Mycroft before he left but he needed to be sure the other men were gone. Suddenly he had an idea, and pulled his phone from his pocket to type a quick message.

**_Wait_.**

He heard Mycroft's phone vibrate and the descending footsteps halt.

**_Where are you? M_ **

**_Are they gone?_ **

**_Yes? M_ **

John smiled, that was all he needed to know. With a sigh he pushed himself out of the cupboard and walked out into the corridor to greet a very confused Mycroft.

Mycroft turned and almost jumped when he saw John had come out of the same room he'd come from.

"What? You were in there with them?" He snapped.

If John was honest he was expecting Mycroft to welcome him with open arms and find the whole situation quite amusing, but the sharp tone of his voice made it clear that was not the case.

"Yeah, I was err..." John shrugged, trying to refrain himself from giggling, but he couldn't stop a grin from breaking free on his face. "I was in the cupboard the whole time. I heard them coming and thought I could just hide quickly but then they came in and..." his voice trailed off as he saw Mycroft's frown.

"And....yeah." His voice went flat. He decided to end the story there as clearly it wasn't being appreciated in the way he had hoped. He bit his lip, and couldn't help thinking, _Sherlock would have found this hilarious..._

Mycroft still looked confused and faintly annoyed. He turned away from John slightly. "I was worried about you." He muttered quietly.

At that thought of Sherlock John had gone sour, not understanding why Mycroft was being so difficult, and wishing he would find this funny.

"Oh, that's surprising." He quipped, "Considering I'm ' _No one of importance_ '." He mimicked Mycroft's authoritative tone as he talked, letting the sassy sarcasm overtake his lips in the way it did so well.

"Ah." Mycroft swiveled his umbrella awkwardly in his hands. "You must know I didn't mean that in a-"

"Whatever." John interrupted, he wasn't entirely sure why he cared anyway.

Mycroft glanced down the corridor cautiously, but it seemed it'd retreated back to the sacred peace and quiet they'd both previously longed for.

"So... they're not friends of yours then?" John asked, desperate to break the silence and prevent it from becoming awkward.

Mycroft laughed loudly. "No...no, certainly not. Colleges are never friends."

"Aren't they?"

"Not in this field of work."

"So this is a work building then, I was beginning to wonder."

"Of sorts yes."

John nodded.

Mycroft coughed and lowered his voice a little, seeming anxious to get to the point. "I did find a room, but, under the circumstances I don't think it's a good idea anymore."

"Oh." John supposed he couldn't really argue and to tell the truth he wasn't massively disappointed. "Well then, I'm going to go home-"

"No." Mycroft frowned, cutting John off. "That's not what I was thinking, in fact, there's this splendid hotel not far away and I imagined we could..."

John sighed heavily and pushed himself back so he was leaning against the wall.

Mycroft watched him carefully, his eyes flickering over John's movements. His voice dawdled "...But I can see you don't want to do that."

John held up a hand, annoyed his actions had revealed his thoughts so obviously.

"No no I do, well, alright I don't. I guess, I just, I wanted to do it now and-"

"It's only five minutes away." Mycroft chipped in.

"Yes but I suppose it's getting rather late now..."

Mycroft took a step closer.

"And I guess what just happened, it's rather..."

Mycroft took another small step and leant in closer still, until they were only a foot apart. He licked his lips as John talked and kept his eyes focused solely on John's mouth. John tried to edge backwards but found he was trapped by the wall.

"...put me off." He finished, his voice now nearly a whisper.

Mycroft lifted his hand and placed it on the wall just above John's shoulder, using it to lean in so they were even closer and their faces were now only inches apart.

Mycroft looked up to John's eyes and then back down to his lips. When he spoke his voice had adopted the most flirtatiously low tone. "Are you _sure_ about that?"

John could feel the soft flutter of Mycroft's breath as he spoke. He looked down to Mycroft's lips.

"I think...I said no kissing..." he breathed, also not being able to prevent the flirty tone from uncurling in his voice.

"Did you?" Mycroft murmured, licking his lips slowly, they were only centimeters from John's now.

"Yes..." John breathed. Trying to steady his quickening breath. He could already feel himself getting hard at Mycroft's sudden proximity.

Mycroft bent his arm so he could press himself down lightly against John, and John had to bite his lip to stop a small moan escaping from his mouth.

John let his eyes flutter shut and he tried to gain some self-control. "Mycroft, I just said, I don't really feel like it anymore-"

Mycroft's eyes flashed with determination and he used his body weight to push John harder against the wall, deliberately pushing his upper thigh harder against John so that it pressed against John's erection. The sudden pressure made John whimper quietly as he tried to suppress a moan.

In the same move Mycroft pulled away from John's lips and brushed past his cheek to whisper in his ear.

"Then I believe your mind and body are in a disagreement..." He purred.

The feel of Mycroft's fiery breath in his ear gave John goosebumps and he shuddered slightly.

"Come on now John..." Mycroft's seductively low voice continued. "Don't make me persuade you...you want this really, don't you?"

Without thinking, John began to nod slowly. His eyelids slanted, and his breath now ragged, he felt hypnotised by arousal.

"Good." Mycroft wrapped his free hand around John's wrist and pushed it against the wall, pinning him down, and drawing another small moan from John in return. The intenseness of it was beginning to make John breathless now and he was feeling slightly lightheaded. But Mycroft didn't stop, instead he began to use his thigh to slowly grind against John's crotch. John gulped loudly, and tried to remember where they were.

"Alright!" he gasped after a moment. "I think you've convinced me enough."

Mycroft withdrew himself instantly, dropping John's wrist and pulling back. A smug grin spread itself out on his face and he looked down at John mischievously, his lip curling up in a victorious smirk.

"Then, what are we waiting for?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed! Thanks so much to everyone who has bookmarked or left kudos! It means so much and really motivates me to write more.


	5. Playing the game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft takes John to yet another posh hotel for some frankly filthy sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! Here is that nice long smut chapter I promised you all those weeks ago. I'm sorry its taken me so long, I've been busy and somehow this chapter has ended up being much longer than I originally intended, and quite a challenge for me, so I hope you enjoy it!

As they stepped outside and slipped into the night, Mycroft warned John to keep his head down. He seemed anxious they weren't seen together and to tell the truth John didn't know whether to be offended or secretly pleased; for the press had never fully left him alone after Sherlock’s fame/death and although it was over ten months ago, he knew there was always a chance he was still being watched.

Mycroft’s umbrella clicked quietly on the pavement as they walked the several yards to the car and John followed silently, only raising an eyebrow in surprise when Mycroft stopped outside the passenger door of a sleek black jaguar and gently pulled it open for him in a very gentlemanly type manner; before slipping around the other side and climbing in himself. As John settled back into his seat he glanced shadily at Mycroft, who was leant forward, a hand gripping the back of the driver's seat, whispering something low into the driver's ear, but it was too quiet for John to make out.

As soon as all doors were clicked shut and they were safely concealed by the blacked out windows, John saw Mycroft physically relax. He sat back and sighed, before palming out the creases in his trousers and pulling out his phone to text. He did not once look at John, so as the car slowly began to roll from the drive and onto the dark streets of London, John decided to keep his gaze firmly fixed on contents of the window. It was a dark night, with drops of rain splattering at the car window. There was no moon. London looked as if it was brooding in the bad weather and as time ticked on John tried desperately not to do the same.

He exhaled a shaky breath. _This is going to be fine._ He told himself. _I want this... Mycroft is just as guilty as I am._ The words echoed around his mind, but he wasn’t convincing anyone, especially not himself. Unintentionally he clenched his fists, his nails scratching at his jeans as his fingers curled. _God if Sherlock knew…_

 _No_ . He couldn’t do this with those thoughts in his head. Sherlock was gone. That was a fact. But...Mycroft was also Sherlock’s brother. He bit his lip, hard. _That_ was also a fact.

Leaving the car was quick and uneventful and once inside, John ended up hovering awkwardly at the bar while Mycroft checked them in. He leant back on the cool wood and watched Mycroft make quick work of swiping his card and exchanging keys. But instead of turning he did something John didn't expect, or in retrospect, maybe he did expect it but the action still took him by surprise. Mycroft leant in to the ear of the reception lady and whispered something, to which the lady glanced across to John, then looked back to Mycroft, unnerved. John rolled his eyes, it wouldn't be a bad guess to suggest Mycroft had just made a ridicious threat of some sort. Something deceptively cruel to ensure she had no memory of ever seeing Mycroft and John together. The power Mycroft held was reassuring and terrifying to John in equal measure, but right now it felt...good. He was about to go to bed with the most powerful and dangerous man in the room. And that at least _,_  was far from dull.

At last Mycroft turned and John knew his cue, and they simultaneously marched towards the large wooden staircase, almost taking the steps together in time. As they reached the top of one staircase and set to climb another, suddenly Mycroft lifted his arm and pulled gently on John's shoulder, willing him to stop and face him.

John did and their eyes met.

“Sure?” Mycroft's voice was soft and forgiving. But underneath the surface, there was something in the undertone of his words that John couldn’t quite place.

The truth was he wasn't. He most certainly wasn't sure that this was a good thing to be doing, that this wasn’t going to be one of the biggest mistakes of his life, but before he knew it he was nodding anyway, and Mycroft had turned back, already climbing the next set of steps.

 

* * *

 

John whistled quietly as he stepped into the hotel room. It wasn’t just the fact that is was on the same luxurious level as the previous one, no, this room was better because it was sort of...more romantic, more cushioned. Under a swirl of cream curtains sat a large, wooden posted double bed, the centrepiece of the room. The smooth silk of the bed covers complemented by a suave velvet coloured rug which lined the foot of the bed. The rest of the room was colour coordinated to match, with lampshades and ornaments all in the same smooth purple. Similar to before there was a view of the city, but this time it was mellowed by curtains. At the other end of the room there was even a small modern fireplace which was comforted with two stylish leather armchairs and a dresser between them. Glasses and a bottle of champagne were already laid out. It was sort of... perfect. Very cliché. But perfect all the same, to him at least. He’d always been a bit of a romantic.

Mycroft closed the door quietly behind them. He eyed the room up slowly before glancing to John and walking over to one of the armchairs and resting his hands gently on the back of it.

John stepped instinctively to go over and join him but suddenly stopped himself. Hesitating. He cleared his throat. Before they started, he just wanted to make one thing clear.

“I’m not staying the night.” He said calmly, making eye contact with Mycroft as he spoke.

Mycroft only raised an eyebrow and smiled to himself, turning away from John slightly as he began to take off his jacket.

John watched him carefully for a second, searching for a reaction before trying again.

“I’m not.” He stated. “We’ll, you know...and then I’m going home. And we’re definitely not sleeping in the same bed. Last time was a one off.”  

Mycroft looked up at him properly this time, a smile that somewhat unnerved John covering his face.

“As you wish.” He replied simply, before slipping off his jacket completely and gently placing it around the back of the chair.

John narrowed his eyes, suspicious Mycroft had given no protest, but then, why would he?

 _I am being_ ridiculous. He thought,  _Stop overthinking things._

“Anyway…” Mycroft started, interrupting John's self-lecture. He made a small gesture with his hand as he spoke, beckoning John over. ”Do you want to sit and talk?” He asked, leaning forwards on the back of the chair.

John considered his options for a second before following Mycroft's instructions and walking over so he was also beside the chairs.

_I need to be confident._

“No. Not really…” He replied, changing his voice so it was now deliciously flirty. Without putting too much thought into what he was doing he moved closer and reached up, beginning to trail a flirtatious finger along the top of Mycroft’s shoulder, fiddling with the creases in his shirt.

Mycroft sighed quietly, his eyes closing briefly as he spoke. “Good. I didn’t fancy it either.” He replied, letting a fleeting smile escape onto his lips. His voice was low and quiet, and much more gentle than usual.

“Hm.” John smirked in return, before flattening out the collar of Mycroft’s shirt and moving his fingertips up so he could begin to spoor his touch along the smooth curve of Mycroft’s neck.

There was a moment of silence between them as John continued to trail his fingertips along Mycroft's neck and collarbone, until he reached up and curled his hand into the light amount hair at the back of Mycroft's head. His decision to force himself to try and be confident had worked, and at this moment he felt oddly self-assured, and he hadn't even had a drink. It was like he had a front on, a mask. In a way he was acting. Right how he was the flirty confident John he always used to be with women. He didn't know how he’d managed to suddenly bring this old confidence back, but he decided he wasn't going to stop and question it.

Mycroft sighed quietly, enjoying the tingling sensation that followed John’s gentle touch. He found his eyes kept wandering down to John’s lips, and _oh_ it was such a shame he was forbidden to kiss them.

John shifted slightly and rested his other hand on the smooth edge of Mycroft's hip, the sides of his fingers just above his belt.

Mycroft smiled again, enjoying this new, more confident John. “Do you want to play the game?” He murmured, his eyes never leaving John's face.

John knew what he was implying, and the answer was…

“Yes.” John breathed, his breath beginning to quicken, as such a small moment, such a small gesture, had suddenly become deeply erotic.

Mycroft's mouth curled up in a smirk. “I was hoping you’d say that…”

Neither of them had planned it, but suddenly something clicked. The moment that had previously been so quiet and gentle just exploded, as if someone had dropped a flame into a lake a diesel, and whatever tension that had previously been keeping them apart snapped.

They collided properly, falling against each other. Mycroft's hands slid down around John's waist, grabbing a wrist in the process and pinning it behind John's back. John on the other hand went straight in for Mycroft's neck, kissing and nibbling at the surprisingly smooth skin with such haste that he forgot to breathe. They went at each other so ferociously that in all the commotion they ended up falling back so that they were pressed into the armchair. Mycroft on top, pushing down onto John with his body weight and moaning excessively as John continued sucking tentatively his neck and pulling at the buttons on his waist coat.

John undid the first few buttons and Mycroft started to roll his hips, grinding down against John on the chair. And it was that pressure against his body, and more prominently, his groin, that caused the first moan to fall from John's lips.

They continued, Mycroft beginning to grind John harder and harder into the chair with his hips until suddenly John spoke.

“Up.” He gasped, palming desperately at Mycroft's chest and pushing him up off of him.

Mycroft faltered, looking confused as he shrunk back and stood up, his chest still heaving from the exertion of it all.

John took a small moment to catch his breath and appreciate the view in front of him. Mycroft, the British government himself, looked utterly dishevelled, hair ruffled, waist coat half open, shirt party untucked and his trousers tight from the very obvious bulge at the front of them. This time John couldn't stop the loud moan that escaped from his lips.

“Is everything alright?” Mycroft asked, looking down at John, his eyes filled with unmasked concern.

“Yes.” John managed. “Oh god yes it is. I just wanted to...” He slid down forward off of the chair so that he landed on his knees in front of Mycroft. He took a grip on Mycroft's belt, fumbling and pulling desperately at the buckle.

Mycroft moaned, content with John’s new plan of action. He gasped slightly when he felt John accidently brush against his cock with his hands, and suddenly he had the overwhelming impulse to grab a fistful of John's hair and push his mouth against the bulge at his crotch, so he did. And John's reaction was as good as he had hoped, he moaned and withered, opening his mouth wider and pressing it against the fabric, mouthing at the outline. His movements lead by Mycroft pressing on the back of his head.

Mycroft couldn’t help but moan quietly. Surprisingly he found himself so affected by the feeling that he collapsed slightly, leaning back against the chair.

_Sentiment? Was that why this felt so much better than anything he’d ever had before?_

His stomach suddenly twisted and underlying alarm bells started to ring, but he swallowed and ignored them, trying to stop his face from revealing any form of panic. It was too late to pull back now. Instead, he slouched his body slightly and positioned his hips up higher to give John better access.

John, oblivious as ever, continued to mouth his way up until he reached Mycroft's belt. And Mycroft quickly leant a helping hand, unbuckling it and pulling it off before tossing it to the floor without much care for where it might land. He acted quickly, anxious to make sure John didn't look up to him and see the glint of concern in his eyes.

But John remained completely unaware of Mycroft's mini crisis. Instead, his only focus was on undoing the buttons of Mycroft's trousers. He pulled the lot down, his breath hitching when he caught sight of it. Too desperate to waste any time, he reached out and wrapped his hands around the length of it as soon as he physically could. He gave too deft, clumsy strokes before shuffling forward and bundling his mouth around it, beginning to slid his lips down when suddenly there was a sharp tug at his hair, pulling his head back.

“Ah.” Mycroft tutted. Continuing to hold John's head in place as he spoke, pulling so roughly that John's head was tilted back and he was forced to look up to him. “Not so fast.” Mycroft continued. ”It's not a race remember.” He smirked, his voice low and heavy.

John steadied himself, trying not to look guilty. He was the slightest bit offended but he knew Mycroft was right. That’s what had happened last time, he’d rushed everything.

Mycroft used his grip to slowly guide John back down to the head of his cock until John’s lips were hovering just above it. Then he released his grip on John's hair and settled his hands back by his sides.

John’s eyes flicked down and then back up to Mycroft, eyes questioning, waiting for the go ahead.

“Try again.” Mycroft tutored, lifting his right hand and settling it lightly on John’s shoulder so he could guide John into time as he pleased.

John followed the instructions, going slowly this time, being careful, his actions more polite. He was starting to understand Mycroft more and more, and although they were playing rough, John was starting to realise it was all still a sort of courtship. You had to be respectful. Play the game properly and stick to the rules. So John did, listening to Mycroft’s body language and taking his pushes on the back of his neck as ques for when he should go deeper. And after a minute John was rewarded with small quiet breathy moans from the man above him.

“Good” Mycroft breathed after a minute. “Very good. Much better.”

John tried not to moan at Mycroft's words of praise. His arousal flooding down to his poor neglected cock still in his trousers. He must have looked down to it briefly or maybe it was just the fact that Mycroft could always see right through him because suddenly he chuckled quietly. “Don't worry," He mutered, "We’ll get to that.”

John groaned, eager to make that moment come quicker. Instinctively his hand reached down to stroke his cock through the fabric or maybe just undo the first few buttons on his trousers. When suddenly, instead of his own hand all he could feel was the sharp sting of a slap across his face. It was all part of the game, but nevertheless John wasn't expecting and he turned his head with the impact, gasping and biting down on his lip in the process.

“Don't.” Mycroft warned, his voice deep and rough. “I haven't said you're allowed to touch yourself yet.”

John removed his hands, stifling a quiet moan.

Mycroft took one of his hands off of the chair and beckoned towards John’s wrists. “Put your hands behind your back.” He commanded.

John obeyed silently, clasping his palms together behind him.

“Good. Now, I want you to make me come like this, understand?”

John nodded, gulping down yet another moan. Who would have known the British government himself would be so smooth talking, the way he uttered such dirty things without a single twitch to his lips or a stammer in his voice; it was making John's knees weak.

Mycroft slid his hand back down around John's neck, guiding him back forwards and making him take up his previous position. John opened his mouth and concentrated like before until he’d successfully reduced Mycroft to a much more disorderly state.

The man was now slouched, gripping hard to the chair, his fingertips pressing so firmly into the fabric they were beginning to turn white. His breathing was now considerably heavier and- for a man that was usually quite quiet- occasional moans now slipped out of his mouth on their own accord.

John pulled back slightly, playing the part so perfectly as he looked up to Mycroft with puppy like eyes, hands still behind his back, holding Mycroft's cock in place with his mouth. Mycroft's moans formed actual words then.

“Oh god John….I’m going to-”

Mycroft's voice was strained and hoarse. John took that as a sign he was close now. His jaw was aching badly and he knew he’d have to stop and catch his breath soon but still he pushed himself deeper, closing his eyes as he did so. There was a gasping noise from the man above him as John gagged, and one of Mycroft's hands flew forward to grab the back of John’s head, holding him in place as he finally came.

John swallowed quickly, not bothering to hide the look of distaste on his face. He kept his eyes closed, but after a moment he heard a hushed chuckle from the man above him.

John’s eyes shot upwards. “Shut up” He said quickly, but the humour was clear in his voice. He pulled back, allowing himself a moment of recovery before looking up to Mycroft again, who had a more than satisfied smirk on his lips.

He raised his eyebrows, questioning.

_What next?_

One brief smile crossed Mycroft’s face and the flash in his eyes said it all. He reached forward, taking control. The spark of satisfaction fuelling his eager return. He balled his fist into the front of John’s shirt and pulled him upwards off of his knees so he was standing.

“Hey-” John began but Mycroft cut him off, using his grip at John’s front to pull him in so he could whisper into his ear.  

“We’re not done yet...don’t come out of character.” Mycroft purred.

John moaned loudly. Finally.

“Alright, alright I-”

Mycroft must be tired, John knew that, but he didn't show it. Instead, he did something John wasn't expecting. He growled, a low guttural sound before placing his hand around John's neck and walking him backwards. John gasped, moving until his legs hit the edge of the bed and he fell back. The soft cotton of the duvet cushioning his fall. Before he had time to catch his breath Mycroft had pulled off his own shirt, kicked off his trousers and was climbing on top of him. John shuffled back so that his head was on the pillow and watched, eyes slanted with arousal as Mycroft finally gave him the attention he craved. The older man's hands were nimble, sliding underneath the rim of his trousers and undoing all the buttons before pulling the lot down. John in turn undid his shirt before sitting upwards, throwing it off and as soon as the fabric left John’s fingertips Mycroft fell down against him. He aligned their bodies and suddenly their foreheads were touching. They looked into each other’s eyes, panting heavily before John caved and turned his head, directing Mycroft to his neck.

Mycroft sucked and nipped, and John ran his hands along the curves of Mycroft’s back, making sure he felt as much skin as he could. He dragged his fingernails down the line of Mycroft spine and felt far more pleasure than he probably should when Mycroft actually shuddered, his hands clutching at the sheets next to John's head.

John grinned. He continued to trail his hands downwards until he reached Mycroft's hips. He knew he wasn't supposed to be in control but he just couldn't help it, he hooked his hands around Mycroft's thighs and tugged. Mycroft appeared to get the message and approved, because then he shifted so that he was straddling John’s hips, yet not all his weight was on him. The position was just like last time, and John had no complaints.

Mycroft reached down between them and wrapped his hand around John’s cock, beginning to stroke his length while still leaning forward so he could still easily kiss John's neck and jawline. Mycroft stroked with a careful amount of precision and John began to moan helplessly, writhing underneath him. After a minute or so Mycroft decided to test his luck. Still stroking John’s length with his hand he moved his lips along John's neck and up to his ear, nipping and biting, causing sharp little intakes of breath to escape from John in between moans. He knew he probably shouldn’t but somehow he couldn't help it, slowly, ever so slowly, Mycroft moved his mouth along John's cheek, willing to get closer to those lips. But just as he was reaching the corner of John's mouth, John turned his head again, diverting Mycroft back away to his neck.

Mycroft gulped, playing it off by moving down to whisper softly in John’s ear.

“Is this good?” He smirked, before giving another tantalizingly slow stroke, causing John’s breath to hitch, before he groaned, he was trying to draw it out but he’d waited so long and he was dying for release now.

“Yes! God- yes this is good but I can’t hold-”

“I know, I know.” Mycroft replied. “It’s okay, don’t hold back, you’re allowed to come now, you’ve earnt it.”

“Fuck.” That was all John needed to hear. His moans became louder and he began to arch himself up into Mycroft’s touch.

“Go on, that’s it. You deserve this.” Mycroft’s continued, his words soft, rolling from his lips so smoothly. They were enough to push John over the edge on their own, even if Mycroft wasn’t giving him the best damn hand job he’d ever had.

Mycroft sped up the movements of his hand. Licking his lips. “Come for me now, come for me, John.”

John didn’t need to be told twice, with a finally sigh and empathic moan, he let himself go under, his muscles tensing and his breath hitching as he finally came. It was utter bliss, and he let himself blank out as the feeling overtook him.

Mycroft followed through with his movements till the end, before rolling off of John onto his side, his chest fluttering lightly. He allowed for a brief pause before reaching over to the bedside table and searching the draws until luckily he found tissues. He leant over and quickly wiped the mess from his own chest and then from John’s; who was still recovering, his chest rising and falling quickly as he caught his breath. John remained silent, clearly still quite dazed by it all, and Mycroft decided not to ruin the moment. Instead he reached down and pulled the covers half way up so they were covering him and John from the waist down.

John sighed, waiting until the final after waves of pleasure had left him. He was ever so comfy but knew it was time for him to go. With regret he slid the covers away from his chest and lifted himself from the bed. He paused to steady himself on the bedpost before reaching down to gather up his clothes that were, of course, scattered all over the floor. As he moved and carefully scooped up each item he could feel Mycroft’s eyes on his naked back.

“Stay.” Mycroft’s low voice rang out into the silence.

John turned sharply, mid scoop. “What?”

“Hm?” Mycroft hummed, tilting his head to the side cheekily as if he hadn’t even said anything.

John watched the twinkle dance in Mycroft’s eyes and he knew what he was suggesting. There was a small pang of regret in his heart in the moment but he knew it couldn’t be. He meant what he said earlier, and was keen to stick to his word.

"Sorry, no can do. I have to go. I have work tomorrow.” He finished picking up his crumpled clothes from the floor and began pulling on his shirt.

Mycroft smiled coyly, stretching out like a cat - and a naked one at that - on the bed.  “I can change that. All you have to do is ask.”  His voice was lower than ever but it was teasing, rising in pitch at the end of his words.  

John had no reply so instead he watched silently as Mycroft sat up more in the bed and gestured towards his jacket which was still slung over the back of the chair.

“Mycroft…” John warned as he walked over and fetched it for him, passing it to him with a hint of suspicion.

Mycroft reached into one of the pockets of his jacket and took out his phone, holding it up.

“One phone call…and you don't have to work tomorrow. No questions asked.”

John studied his face, confused. He wasn't massively surprised that Mycroft had the power to do that, no, the real question was: _why_ did Mycroft want him to stay so badly? It seemed highly out of character for a man that was supposedly alien to emotion.

“No.” John replied simply, looking down and avoiding Mycroft's eyes.

There was a pause and John could almost see Mycroft smile even though he wasn't looking at him.

“Why are you lying to me?” Mycroft asked, the tone of his voice louder than before.

John was taken back at the accusation. “I’m not! I-”

“Then why does your body language always suggest the complete opposite to your mouth. You _want_ to stay. It's obvious.”

John raised his eyebrows. Unimpressed. Clearly Mycroft was trying to be clever, but John was a stubborn creature and the accusation only made him more determined to leave.

“Mycroft. I said no.” He turned away from the older man and began to march for the door.

“Ahh ah, wait.”

Mycroft lurched forward, and John got no further than a step before he felt slim hands curl around his sides and grab firmly at the handles of his hips.

“Hey! I-” John hissed as the hands took a gentle but sturdy grip and pulled him back so that he fell backwards onto the bed, straight into Mycroft's open arms.

In an instant Mycroft wrapped his arms around John's chest and pulled him in, curling his legs and his body to the shape of John's so he was effectively spooning him.

John lied there, still with surprise. He let the feeling of heat absorb him slowly as Mycroft leant into his back. He didn't struggle, in fact he was confused more than anything. This wasn't sex, this was affection. And that wasn't what they were doing. That wasn't the rules he had so clearly laid out.

John couldn't get emotionally involved with anyone right now, or maybe ever, after...well the loss of Sherlock had just completely...

_Trust issues. He trusted no one._

That was all that needed to be said. And besides, Mycroft probably had some ulterior motive. He didn't seem like the kind of man who was about to prove him wrong.

He sighed regretfully as he parted his lips to speak. The warm feeling that now surrounded him was lovely, there was no denying that, and it had been such a long time since anyone had shown him affection. He was truly enjoying it but sadly it had to stop. He wriggled slightly.

“Mycroft...we can't…what I said, I meant it.”

Suddenly John felt a hand move up from his waist and a gentle finger press to his lips.

“Just for tonight?” Mycroft's voice was still low but also so, so soft; barely more than a whisper in his ear.

John groaned internally. He wanted to stay...but didn't Mycroft understand that he just _had_ to leave? And he wasn't making it any easier with that husky voice - it was irresistible.

“You know it's a bad idea....” He stated, his normal voice sounding abnormally loud in the quiet room.

“Please?” Mycroft whispered, his voice quiet and raw. Unusually it did something that was very rare, for once, it was revealing, open to fondness and emotion.

_Oh the fucker._

John could never resist a please, especially when it was coming from the British government himself; a man who would hardly dream of using the word in such a context. A man who would never normally let a pleading word fall from his lips. It was the kind of word reserved _only_ for a lover. _Only_ for him.

“Fine.” He huffed, unintentionally snuggling back into Mycroft's touch as he relaxed and untensed his muscles.

“But…” John's voice trailed as a wave of sleepiness hit him. His body rewarding his actions with a yawn and the pleasant driftiness always felt before a deep sleep.

Mycroft reached down over them and pulled the soft, thick covers over their bodies.

“Just this once.” John murmured, not being able to stop his eyes from falling shut. It was amazing how quickly sleep could take over his body when he let it.

Mycroft leant back and flicked the bedside light off. “Ok” He whispered as he brought himself back and draped a lazy arm over John's waist, holding him.

John rolled his eyes at the affectionate gesture and with one last sigh, finally let himself drift off into a well-deserved, deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realise at the moment Mycroft may seem highly out of character but don't worry, that will all be explained later on. I also have a lot of plot planned for this story so that will start happening soon. Thank you so much for reading and thanks to everyone who leaves kudos and comments, it really is what motivates me to write and I'm very grateful.


	6. Lunch?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John expects a hotel address...instead he gets a dinner date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so first of all it's been a very long time since I updated this and I'm really sorry. The truth is I kinda just fell out of it a bit and couldn't get back in. When I read back over all of this now it just seems embarrassingly poor to me, the writing, the beginning plot...all of it. So I have decided I'm going to go back through it over the next few weeks and rewrite a few things, not to change what happens, just to make it a bit better. But, you will be pleased to hear I have decided that (even if this is rubbish) I am going to continue and try and get to the end. Since I do have such an intricate plot in mind and have already written 70 odd pages that I haven't even posted yet...which would be a shame to waste I think. Sorry for rambling, anyway I hope you enjoy!

It went on like this, the infrequent meetups. Once or twice a week. Each with different hotels and different times. Sleeping together and then departing without saying another word. Going back to living their normal lives, going about with their separate business...

Well until the next text came through.

John thrummed his fingers on the table, like every day, he found himself sat at his desk at the surgery, thinking through his dire situation with little hope of any happy outcome. He was just thinking about what time to head to the staff room for lunch when suddenly his phone vibrated on the table in front of him, and the exciting prospect of a text pulled him sharply away from his thoughts. Of course, he wouldn't care to admit it, but his heart _did_ jump. Hoping it was Mycroft, perhaps a hotel address for tonight. He grabbed his phone slid it open and-

**_Lunch? M_ **

_Oh_. John’s heart sank just a little bit. _Right_.

 

* * *

 

John picked at his food. The restaurant Mycroft had chosen was nice. Upmarket. Decorated in plush red velvet, a grand bar and extravagant seating positioned in quiet secluded corners. A simple roll of bread would probably cost ten pounds, but that was ok. Mycroft had already insisted he’d pay, despite John’s adamant protests.

“Don't you like it?” Mycroft asked smoothly, lifting his glass with his usual elegance as he went to take another sip of his red wine.

John sighed. “I do...I'm just-” he pushed a small section of lamb steak across his plate with the edge of his knife. “Not hungry.”

Mycroft nodded with apparent understanding. Placing his glass down and leaning on the table with his elbows, resting his chin on his hands.

“How was work?” He asked innocently. “Interesting? Bearable?”

John scoffed. “Dull. You?”

Mycroft gave a small laugh. “Much the same. The Prime Minister is an insufferable human being. Downing street can be _such_ a tedious place to spend your afternoon.”

“You've been at Downing Street?” John asked. There was surprise in his voice but he couldn’t help it. Despite his best intentions he found himself quite interested. “What for?”

“Advice.” Mycroft replied carefully. Lowering his voice slightly and flicking his eyes away from John’s own briefly as he scanned the face of a nearby waiter.

“Advice?” John repeated, not bothering to keep his voice down. “You mean you tell him what to do.”

Mycroft looked vaguely irritated. He sat back in his chair before folding his hands neatly in his lap. “That's correct.”

John shook his head in disbelief. His jaw falling open ever so slightly.

There was a pause and Mycroft studied John's expression carefully. Pursing his lips like he always did when he was about to make an ambiguous statement. “He's a man that can be led by the nose John.” He continued in a plain tone. “Someone's got to do it.”

“And that person has to be you.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirked up in a slight smirk. “Obviously. No one else could be trusted.”

“Why don't you just do it yourself then- be Prime Minister I mean - I'm sure you could.” John responded, rolling his eyes a little.

Mycroft laughed again, before his expression turned more serious as he took a moment to study the question presented to him. “Public limelight John… irrelevant speeches and meetings...it's not for me. Much easier to have a short-sighted puppet to do that all for you.”

John nodded, not really understanding what Mycroft was saying.

“Everyone has strings to pull...” The older man continued in a dark tone. “I can _always_ get what I want.”

And there, right then, it sunk in.

John had another go at the lamb, stabbing it sharply with his fork. It wasn't anything new of course, but the way Mycroft spoke, the way the words dawdled their way slowly to the end of a sentence. Always staying smoothly within the boundaries of that bored, dangerous tone. It wasn’t right. When John really thought about it,  _Mycroft_ wasn’t right. For him everything was easy, calculated with precision before it had even happened. Things were _always_ under control.

It was almost frightening.

As John continued to chew on his unsatisfactory piece of lamb, he felt a familiar panic start to rise in his chest. A horrible anxiety beginning to swallow him up. This conversation had reminded him yet again of the power that the man before him- the one so elegantly nibbling at his caviar- held delicately in his large hands.

Like Sherlock said when they’d first met: “ _Probably the most dangerous man you’ll ever meet.”_

It was becoming clear that the consulting detective had never been more right.   

John stared into the darkened eyes of the man in front of him. In some ways, Mycroft was so _, so_ different from his brother.

The realisation of it all came like a smack in the face. He was in too deep. Falling into a whole he had no idea how to climb out of. He’d known it, of course he had. But now he could feel it, sitting in front of him and staring at him like prey, claws at the ready. Mycroft could probably have him executed at the click of a finger.

“Are you occupied tonight?” Mycroft asked quickly, looking up at John and breaking the moment, his expectant eyes burning into John’s pale blue ones.   

John swallowed his mouthful. The panic still fuzzing in his brain. He wasn't busy. In fact, he had absolutely fuck all to do when he got home. But Mycroft was tapping his fingers impatiently on the table. Waiting. An Eagle eyeing up his next victim- or at least that’s how John saw it.

Not only was there panic, but the same lingering guilt he had been feeling ever since this started also crawled up his back. Making itself known. He knew what he should do.

He should get out.

 _Get. out_.

Leave all of this before it was too late.

If Sherlock were alive, it is most certainly what he would have wanted.  

“Yes.” John stuttered. “Sorry I'm busy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, sorry for the angst! Hopefully things are slightly more in character? I'm not sure, as I said before I am editing the storyline plan at the moment so it's all a bit all over the place. Don't feel afraid to leave your thoughts in the comments, I love getting feedback. Also, I would be absolutely thrilled if you contacted me on my [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/221bsherlockfandom_/) or my [Tumblr](http://but-it-was-always-supposed-to-be.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thank you!


	7. What's changed? M

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets drunk and says what he really thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's literally been a day since I last updated, apparently when I get addicted to something I just can't stop myself. Send help.

John sat at his desk. Stacks of surgery paperwork in front of him. But as usual, he wasn't doing it. He thought perhaps if he just stared at the sheets hard enough they would disappear. It seemed an easy enough concept.

His tired glare was continuous, unblinking, until the unexpected buzz of his phone in his pocket broke the trance. He pulled it out as quickly as he could manage.

 ** _The Stafford hotel. Top floor. 887 Holmes._** **_M_**

John stared solidly at his phone until his eyes started to water. It was the first message he had received since their lunch date. He typed a message quickly, pressing his thumbs hard against the keyboard. Tapping too fast to stop change and his mind.

**_Sorry. Not available._ **

 

* * *

 

The next time was when he was laying in bed, the sweaty sheets clenched tight in his fingers. It was nearly two in the morning. One of _those_ nights. He was exhausted, his eyes aching and his body heavy. But he couldn't sleep. Couldn't get one thing off his mind.

_Sherlock._

His phone buzzed on the bedside table.

With a sigh he rolled over and reached across to his bedside table, the sharp glare of his phone screen making his eyes hurt and his head throb. It was a couple of seconds before he could actually focus on the screen.

**_Tomorrow? M_ **

John stared at the message blankly, before dropping his phone carelessly and rolling back over. He closed his eyes. Tried to focus on deep, heavy breaths.

But the tears still came anyway.

 

* * *

 

John's eyes scanned the many tins of tomatoes that were lined up neatly on the shelf in front of him. He was at tesco, late night shopping. He didn't really know why he was there. He never ate much anymore. He had come to skip most meals, and lived mostly off tomato soup.

He was just about to pick up a decent looking tin of Heinz from the shelf when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

His shoulders sagged and his stomach suddenly twisted into a tight knot. Without thinking, he reached down and shoved his hand into his jeans.

**_What's changed? M_ **

John blinked. He couldn't even begin to answer that. There was no way he could ever even comprehend describing how he felt to another human being. It just wasn't an option. He glanced up and down the aisle. 

Maybe it was better to just not reply.

He clicked the lock button and slid his phone back into his pocket quickly.

 

* * *

 

The next time it was late, just past eleven. John was slouched on the sofa in his flat with his head back against cushion. The lights were a dim orange and the tv was off. All was silent except for the steady sound of his shallow breathing.

He was drunk, which was nothing new. Whisky glass in hand...he’d been there for hours.

Time was passing slowly, yet quickly. He had a vague memory of his phone buzzing several times throughout the evening, but hadn't even bothered to move and check the messages. It felt like the walls were closing in on him, the lights getting lower. He was close to passing out, and besides...

He knew who it would be.

His head hurt, and he wasn't entirely sure what he was thinking about anymore, because  _he couldn't_ tell. It appeared all his thoughts had blurred into an endless black abyss of silence and darkness.

_...Sherlock...Mycroft...Harry...Sholto...what life would’ve been like if he’d never met Mike Stanford in the park that day...would it be different?...would it be better?_

Although the majority of these had come earlier, and right now he was about to hit that gorgeous sweet spot where he was so wasted that he couldn't think much of anything at all. His mind was _almost_ blank. At this point, he smiled to himself, he was useless, he didn't know anything, wasn't thinking anything. It was bliss, all he knew was that...his phone was ringing?

He dragged his eyes open and slumped forward, swiping his mobile clumsily from the coffee table at his feet. His vision was too blurry to check the caller ID. Instead he just hit accept.

“John?”

_Oh. Of course._

_Shit._

He sighed, making a sort of strangled noise as he fell back into the sofa, holding the phone sloppily against his ear.

“John? Are you there?” Mycroft asked again, his voice perfectly level.

“Yes...yes,” John whispered, trying very hard to keep his own voice from slurring. “I’m here.”

“Ah, good…how are you?”

Even from the other end of the phone, John could hear the strain in the older man’s voice.

“Mycroft…” John dawdled, focusing very hard on stringing his words together correctly. “It's late...why are you calling me?”

Mycroft coughed, leaving an audible pause before he parted his lips to speak.

“I was...concerned.” He managed, seemingly fighting something that John couldn't see.

John laughed, but it came out wrong. Sort of like he was being choked. It was all too much. Why couldn't the world just leave him alone? Leave him to grieve in piece? Why couldn't everyone just fuck off. Anger started to stab him like a knife, and now that alcohol was swirling through his brain it seemed there was absolutely nothing to stop him from saying what he truly thought.

“Yeah right.” He spat, the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “You just wanna fuck me.”

Mycroft said nothing.

“Isn't that right?” John slurred, the words tumbling from his mouth uncontrollably now. He couldn't be bothered to make the effort to keep them straight anymore. “You just want to pretty me up, make everything all nice and posh - romantic even, so that you can have your way with me. Get what you want- to fuck me and then leave.”

“Are you...drunk?” Mycroft’s voice had turned. It was sour now, hostile even.

John huffed, exhaling a large amount of air out of his nose. 

“I see...” Mycroft said grimly, his voice dry. “That's not what this is. I’ve asked you to stay before. You're the one who leaves. I want to...”

“What until morning?" John interrupted. “So I can wake up feeling like a used piece of shit when you’re not even fucking there?” A part of him knew he was swearing badly, knew he was being incredibly aggressive, but for some reason he just...couldn’t help it.

Mycroft’s tone went cold. “That’s not..." There was a long pause. "Actually, I don’t think it’s appropriate we continue talking in this manner considering the state you’re in. Call me back in the morning - or don’t. Suit yourself.”

“Wait-”

He hung up before John even had time to process the words.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft dropped the phone from his ear. The air around him felt cold, distant. For the first time in a long while he felt a sort of emptiness begin to cling to his chest.

He wasn’t expecting the end to be like this.

But perhaps...it was for best, it was never going to last anyway. After all...

_Sherlock was still alive._

He’d already been a very, _very_ bad big brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so first of all this isn't the end it's kinda just the start, and I also want to assure everyone that just because Sherlock is alive, doesn't mean this is suddenly going to turn into a Johnlock fic, I mean I don't want to give anything away but...please hang around. Also I know this is sad but things will be looking up soon...I promise. Hope you enjoyed! Please don't feel afraid to comment your feedback!


	8. I worry about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up the next morning and suddenly realises he's faced with a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have such a love-hate relationship with this fic. I had such high hopes for this storyline but whenever I write it I feel as if I am ruining it, but then I really enjoy writing it so... I don't know, it's mixed feelings. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

John felt odd when he first awoke. Shallow, like he wasn’t quite there.

The room was bright - blindingly so - a sharp dagger of daylight streaming in through a gap in his living room blinds and striking him on the cheek. He only managed to blink momentarily before eyes fluttered shut again, already weak with defeat.

It appeared he hadn’t made it to the bedroom last night. Instead, he was crashed on the floor, his body slumped awkwardly near the door and his side aching on the hard wooden floorboards. His head was spinning, his mouth felt dangerously dry and his limbs were stiff with cramp. This wasn't good.

He pushed up onto his elbows and groaned as an even worse, but familiar ache spread out across his forehead and intensified as he moved.

“Oh god.” He breathed, mashing his head into his palm.

The severity of his hangover shouldn't really have been a surprise, but it still caught him a little off-guard.

 _Ouch_.

He could only really remember little pieces from last night. It appeared nothing solid remained and even then he doubted the evidence of his own memory. He knew that he had phoned Mycroft, and he could sort of remember swearing down the phone. Hissing and shouting something along the lines of “ _You wanna fuck me.”_ Although come to think about it, he wasn’t entirely sure why he said it.

What was most irritating, was that he couldn’t remember what Mycroft’s reaction had been, or what he’d said in return. The entire evening's conversation felt like a fill-in-the-gaps exercise, and he only had one line to play with.

The only thing he could remember clearly enough to trust was the final thing that Mycroft had said before he unexpectedly rang off.

“ _Call me back in the morning- or don’t. Suit yourself.”_

John swallowed and his heart began to thump a little harder in his chest. Did this mean that the end was close now? Did this mean that if he had the willpower to ignore Mycroft for just a little bit longer then maybe he’d finally give up and leave him alone? Surely that’s the only thing “- _or don't. Suit yourself.”_ could mean, couldn't it?

John wished he could be sure. Was he reading too much into everything? Was it actually obvious? All of it was so messed up, and the whole situation felt like it was mixed with compilations so intense that they could rival the creation of an entire galaxy. Everything fell within a swirling wave of emotion, desire, and perhaps a drop of sentiment.

It was possible that this was the end. Maybe if he ignored Mycroft now then he wouldn't get another call. Perhaps this was his chance to _get out_. Just like he wanted to.

He sat up fully and scanned the room for his phone, and caught sight of it after a second. It was lying face down a couple of feet away from him near the wall. He couldn't remember how it got there, but it didn't take a genius to deduce that he’d probably thrown it.

He crawled over to the other side of the room weakly, pausing to steady himself on the edge of the coffee table. He scooped up his mobile hesitantly, and managed to ignore the feelings of regret when he saw the corner of the screen was now smashed. He wasn't giving in. It was innocent really. He just wanted to look at Mycroft's name on the screen. To check that this whole thing was real, to scan over his caller history and make sure he hadn’t dreamt it all up. He turned the phone over a couple of times in his palm, hands trembling, hesitating, he clicked the lock button and-

**3 New messages**

John blinked quickly. They weren’t recent ones, no, they were from last night. They were the messages he’d received _before_ Mycroft had called. The ones that he’d ignored and not bothered to look at.

He slid his phone unlocked before he was entirely sure it was good idea.

  1. 20pm - **I fail to understand the exact cause in the change of our arrangements. M**


  1. 22pm - **Has anything happened? M**


  1. 50pm - **Please call when you get this message.**   **I worry about you.**



As John’s eyes fell over the final text he almost dropped his phone completely.

It didn’t make any sense. Any of it. Mycroft didn’t worry about anybody. He was the ice-man, always cold and distant, except...

“ _I worry about him...constantly.”_

John dropped his head back against the wall. Why did the ending already feel so inevitable? Why was Mycroft Holmes such a difficult man to fight?

**I worry about you.**

John stared at the message again, repeating the words over and over in his head until they didn't look like words anymore. The letters started to merge together on the screen. Blending into one blurry mess of black and white and thoughts so confusing they made John feel dizzy.

He blinked the tears that were forming in his eyes and watched as the letters regained their focus. He tried to think logically. A few weeks wasn’t much to go by, and it's not like they were even officially together - hell, they hadn't even kissed properly yet - but he had been temporarily happy with Mycroft, hadn't he? It’d been up and down, but overall he looked forward to the evenings they spent together. He _craved_ the adrenaline it gave him, and treasured the moments when Mycroft caused a shy smile to slip out onto his lips. It was a quick fix, but a nice one at least.

Mycroft had always been charming. There had _always_ been something unspoken between them. That had been obvious from the very first moment they met.

His thoughts strayed to the night that Mycroft had persuaded him to stay. How it felt to have someone holding him - after all this time. Mycroft's slender arms cradling his body. His large hands sliding across John's lean torso. His lips close to his ear. The delicious feeling of the older man’s breath fluttering softly over the sensitive skin of John's neck.

There was no denying it had been addictive, intoxicating even, and that he-

 _“You're not traumatised by the war Doctor Watson...you miss it_.”

-he wanted it back.

_Oh, fuck it._

The last of his resolve crumbled entirely.

In the end, it only took a split second to find Mycroft’s name with his fingers and hit the dial button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't normally write chapters as short as this but I realised this was a good place to pause and I figured you'd rather me get stuff out there quickly. I feel like my writing style has changed since I restarted this, and it's a bit more...loose now? I don't know, but I hope you like it. Please don't be afraid to comment your thoughts and suggestions! x


	9. From the beginning?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words are said, feelings are repaired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, please don't shoot me. I know it's been like...ages. I'm so sorry, really I am. I stopped writing altogether for a long period over the summer and it's taken me a while to get back into the swing of things... plus I've been super busy because I started a new job in Journalism! But, I promised I would continue this so here it is - a new chapter. I really don't have a lot of faith in this story but anyway....I hope you like it.

The bench John had chosen to sit on was cold and damp, and the air that surrounded him was heavy with mist. Grey clouds were all that rumbled slowly across the sky above, making rain seem likely. A soft drizzle had already begun to hang in the air, dribbling down from the trees and dusting his hair with the lightest layer water.  _ Typical _ , he thought as he brushed it back from his face with his fingers.  _ The one time I forget to bring an umbrella. _ ..

It was a mystery why Mycroft had chosen St James’ Park as their meeting place - it seemed an odd choice of location. Nearly empty, there were only humble dog walkers and weary looking smokers dotted about, all mooching over the soggy green grass and past the empty benches to try and find somewhere to get their early morning coffee. Leafless trees stood still and lifeless, holding their silence as they braced themselves for bitter day that it would be. The whole setting looked off, rigged. Like Mycroft had clicked his fingers and made everything appear incredibly bland and neutral. John wasn't entirely sure what that meant.  

He shifted around on the bench nervously, twiddling his hands in his lap before glancing anxiously over his shoulder. He’d never really liked parks in central London. They’d always felt far too open, too public. Especially if you were going to talk to someone  _ like this. _

A single droplet of rain suddenly fell down from the sky and splattered on his cheek, causing him to wince and drag the back of his sleeve across his face quickly.  _ God,  _ he muttered under his breath. He didn’t want it to look like he’d been crying before Mycroft had even arrived. He wasn’t going to allow  _ that  _ to  happen _. _  Not here. Not yet. 

His muscles ached with every movement, his hangover clinging to him like a disease. In fact, it would be no stretch to declare that he was thoroughly and utterly exhausted. But, he’d still managed to listen to Mycroft very carefully on the phone - let him do most of the talking. The older Holmes spoke gently in that same smooth voice, calm and collected as ever. Telling him what to do and which directions to take. Saying things like “ _ Do you think you can do this?”  _ and,  _ “Would that be ok, John?” _

John had listened. And then he put the phone down and showered before pulling on some fresh clothes and dragging a razor across his chin. No doubt Mycroft deduce the absolute nervous wreck that he was in no less than a second, but at least he’d made an effort. 

The minutes slowly continued to tick by and John found it hard to resist checking his watch. It wasn't like Mycroft to be late? He fiddled anxiously with his shirt, trying to dull his thoughts by focussing on some of the things around him.  __

A few people walked along the path a couple of meters away, chatting about last night's episode of Eastenders or what they were cooking for dinner, while their mindless dogs trotted cheerfully in front of them. It was all so  _ insignificant _ . He hardly remembered living a day like that now, so happy that those tiny boring details were the only things left to worry about. It was unimaginable actually, the thought of having the motivation to plan ahead or even get out of bed on a day when he didn’t have to. He sighed softly through his nose. Things change.

It had now been exactly 11 months and 29 days since Sherlock killed himself, and everyone lied, because nothing had become any easier. He’d do anything, literally  _ anything,  _ to turn back the clock and have the chance to speak to Sherlock again - even for a moment. Even if it was only in the seconds before he died. Maybe he could have said something, done something differently that would have prevented-

“John?”

The courteous voice he knew so well came from his left. 

John pulled his jacket a little tighter around his chest and went to stand. 

“Oh, no please, don’t get up, I was thinking we could just sit here.” 

John plonked himself back down again. He suddenly felt timid, nervous, and slightly embarrassed to see Mycroft after the way he had acted the night before. Mycroft didn’t look at him, he simply propped his umbrella against the edge of the bench and sat, leaving a fair gap between them. It was a moment before either of them spoke. 

“Sorry.” John mumbled at last. 

“Don’t be.” 

“No,” John finally forced himself to make eye contact, “Really I am, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, or ignored your messages-” 

“John.” 

“I guess I’ve just been a complete mess, to be honest with you I can’t think straight anymore, ever since-” 

Mycroft brought his eyes to his, capturing his gaze. “It’s fine.” He said softly, looking at John in a way he had only done few times before. “I understand. You don’t have to explain anything to me, in fact, I actually wanted to use this time to apologise to  _ you _ .” 

“What?”

Mycroft took a long and steady breath, before dropping John’s gaze and staring out across the park. “I spent a large majority of last night thinking everything over, and, I realised that,“ He paused, taking a moment to make sure he had the right words. “I realised that this relationship has always been on my terms, not yours, and that I have persuaded you - and I daresay - even manipulated you into doing things when I should not have done. You are clearly in a very vulnerable and helpless state, and I fear I have taken advantage of that.” 

“Wow…” John let himself lean back against the bench, the cool breeze cooling his cheeks and whipping up his hair. It was hard to describe how he felt, most of him was amazed, and slightly impressed at Mycroft’s honestly and his sudden ability to say sorry. He was normally so stubborn? He felt a slight sting at being called helpless, he wouldn’t exactly go  _ that  _ far but... It was almost unbelievable…

“Do you really mean that?” 

Mycroft clasped his hands together in front of him and dipped his head solemnly. “I do, and I think there should be...changes, if we are to continue.” 

It felt as if a weight had started to lift from John’s shoulders. Maybe this could work, perhaps if Mycroft were to change... maybe eventually John could learn to work past the guilt. 

“What sort of changes were you thinking?” 

“Well, I think that  _ you  _ should arrange the time we meet, and where. I think we should always keep to what you’re comfortable with - and maybe we should have a safeword for a start.” 

John nodded silently in agreement. 

“And, also…” Mycroft took a deep breath before turning to John and looking at him directly in the eyes. “I think you should...get help.” 

“What?” John gritted his teeth, he could feel the air getting thinner, an all too familiar jittery tingling beginning to take over his fingertips. It was coming so fast...

“There is no easy way to put this.” Mycroft continued. “But I have been monitoring your behaviour very closely since the beginning of our relationship, and I believe you may be severely depressed. It has also come to attention that you might have a drinking problem.” 

“Me?! A drink problem?” John suddenly spat. His stomach contracted instantly, knotting like he’d been punched, and recoiling into itself as his chest grew tighter and tighter with every passing second. Everything was prickling. Itching. His hairs were starting to stand up like needles on his arms. It was anger, hatred, burning through his veins like a forest fire. He wanted to hit something,  _ no _ , he wanted to hit Mycroft. How  _ dare _ he accuse him of having a drinking problem, how dare he say- 

“You know I am actually a doctor so I think I would know if I had a fucking drinking problem thank you very much.” 

“You do not want to admit it.” Mycroft replied calmly. 

“No!” John cried. “Just because I got drunk and shouted at you last night does not mean I’m a bloody alcoholic! And yes, I haven’t been my best recently but I wouldn’t say I’m ‘severely depressed’. And who are you to tell me what I fucking am. You’re a control freak Mycroft. An obsessive, manipulative machine who will do and say  _ anything  _ to get what you want.” John stood before he even realised what he was doing, his curled fists trembling violently at his sides. He couldn’t believe it, he never should have picked up that fucking phone earlier, never should have let himself get sucked into this bullshit again. He turned to look down at Mycroft, the pitiful expression on his face only making him even angrier. “You know what?” He took one final moment to savour what he was about to say. “Fuck you.” 

“John.” 

The army doctor turned and began to march away from the bench, away from Mycroft, and along the damp tarmac path towards the bridge. He could walk to the avenue and get a cab from there. Break away, take long deep breathes as he was whisked back to the flat, back to darkness. He might even be able to fall asleep - he was tired enough. Right now he wanted nothing more than to collapse back into the blissful unconsciousness, to try to forget that any of this had ever happened. 

“John!”

Great, and now the most dangerous man in the country was ruining all of these plans by following him. 

“John, please, I ask you to think about this.” 

The army doctor turned sharply on his heels. “Think about it?” He hissed. “You really don't get it, do you? I never  _ stop _ thinking about it - about anything! I can't sleep, can't eat. I-” He closed his mouth abruptly as words failed him and turned to walk again. “Just leave me alone Mycroft.”

Mycroft kept up with him. “But you misunderstand me, I’m trying to help you!” 

“Ha,” John scoffed loudly. “That’s a funny one. Randomly initiating some ambiguous sex game with me and manipulating me into doing your dirty work, yeah that’s really nice of you. Really helpful. I feel great.” 

Mycroft stopped walking. 

“Is that what you think this is?” 

“Don’t lie to yourself Mycroft.” 

Mycroft’s umbrella sharply stopped tapping on the ground.

“You’re wrong.” 

John came reluctantly to a halt. He tried to unclench his fists, tried to stop himself shaking, but it was no use. He swallowed audibly. 

“I know I don’t show it but…I care about you John. A lot.” 

John shut his eyes. Why didn’t anything feel real anymore? Why had words lost their meaning, promises and smiles become flat and lifeless. Why did everything feel so dull and empty, grey like the sky above him. He didn’t know what to say. Mycroft wasn’t like this. He didn’t say these things? John felt like he hardly knew him at all.

“I don’t-” 

He had to cut himself off before the words started to come out wobbly, and his throat became so dry it  _ hurt _ to speak.

“Listen,” Mycroft was moving towards him slowly. Walking carefully, cautiously, like approaching a bomb that was about to explode. One more false move and the whole thing would go up in smoke. 

“I know I’ve always seemed distant...and emotionless, and cold. That’s because I  _ wanted  _ you see me like that, I need everyone to think that. It makes me somewhat untouchable.” 

John scoffed. “Yeah. Didn’t stop Moriarty though did it?” 

Mycroft had reached John’s side now, and debated putting his hand on John’s shoulder before deciding against it. “No...no it didn’t. And that is a loss I will never-” He fixed his gaze firmly on the ground. Guilt leaking up like black ink from the darkest corner of his conscience. “I will never fully recover from.” 

John wiped his eyes and looked up to study the other man’s face. There were faded creases lining his eyes, bags that meant dark shadows hung beneath them. When you really stared, Mycroft looked as rough as John felt. 

He looked as if he meant it. 

John took another deep breath and tried to shut the world out for a minute, let the drone of the traffic fade away until it gave way to silence in his mind. Was he really back here? Trying to make this choice. Again? 

“Look,” Mycroft suddenly began with a start. “How about we turn a new page, start over. Try and put everything behind us. You can arrange when we meet, and where. And I don’t mean in hotels. We can do whatever you fancy. Go away somewhere - anywhere! We can travel we-” 

“Mycroft.” John opened his eyes and raised his left hand slowly so as to cut him off. “It’s fine, ok.” 

“Fine?” 

“It’s just...we’ve both done things we shouldn’t have, both landed ourselves in this mess. You’re right, I’m not ok. I’m not myself. I’m grieving, I need help. I just hard to admit all that when…” 

John trailed off as droplets of rain started to splatter down onto his cheeks, soaking his hair and the beginning to drip down the back of his neck. 

“Oh gosh.” Mycroft tilted his head up to the sky. “I did know it was going to rain but-” 

John leant forward and slipped his hand into Mycroft’s palm, holding it just for a beat too long before plucking the smooth wooden handle of his umbrella from his fingertips. He promptly opened it above them and they stood silently for a moment, listening as the water battered down onto the plastic and dripped to the pavement. It was like a bubble had formed itself around them. The noise seemed to fade, the people too. It was like London had evaporated around them.

John hesitated momentarily before pursing his lips and wincing awkwardly. “So, let's start again shall we?” 

Mycroft turned, his frown slowly lifting into a light smile. He placed a gentle hand on John’s shoulder. “From the beginning?” 

John swallowed. Was Mycroft Holmes a trustworthy man? Possibly not. Would he regret this? Probably.

But did it feel like the right thing to do? 

Yes. 

“Sure.” John smiled, placing his arm on Mycroft’s back and walking them onwards towards the road. “Let's try that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cute huh? I finally made up for all that angst. I feel like things are complicated. Just a reminder from the previous chapters that Sherlock is still alive and Mycroft is VERY aware of that. Things can only end in disaster...  
> Also I was thinking I'd really like to change the name of this fic, the current one makes me cringe more than anything. Any suggestions? I will do it before the next chapter.


	10. Please don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft can't ignore the problem forever. Especially when it won't stop texting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! I really hope you enjoy this. I'm a little worried my writing has slipped down the drain but anyway. I'm also really struggling to write in the past tense, since I'm normally always writing in the present now? Please feel free to point out any errors you spot.

Weeks passed like days, hours flew by like minutes. Time always seeming to go by faster and faster. Like there was someone was holding down on the fast-forward button; skipping past every precious moment with John, and pressing play as soon as Mycroft found himself back at work.

A whole month had passed since their talk at the park, a blissful few weeks of peace and newfound affection. In some ways it was like an entirely new relationship had begun. They'd started afresh. They now corresponded equally by text, sometimes email, and went for walks in secluded areas of countryside. They saw old films in the cinema. Dined for meals in fancy restaurants. They still met up at the occasional hotel for the evening... but now everything was much less controlled - much less full on.

Mycroft felt dizzy with it all, and so _very_ protective; determined to keep what was his. He was falling - partly terrified and partly thrilled - in a black pit of emotions; sensations. A new and deadly swarm of dangerously intoxicating feelings he hadn't experienced since he was a teenager.

The trouble was, he doubted he would ever be able to climb back out of it.

Tonight was a dark, foggy. A strong wind howled around the office building, and umbrellas were stacking up beside the door. It was late January and the evenings had not yet got brighter, and unusually, he was really starting to miss the evening sun that used to shine faintly through his office window.

He leant back at his desk and collected some of the papers in front of him. It was probably some of the most the most important paperwork the world would ever see, but that didn't bother him. Not in the slightest. Since John had become involved in his life work problems were to be such a minuscule worry compared to his new, much, _bigger,_ more deadly, dilemma.

_Sherlock wasn't dead._

_And John believed he was._

But to make matters worse, Mycroft has always _known_ Sherlock isn't dead and has lied to John for the entirety of their relationship to ensure he would stay with him.

 _Well_. He closed his eyes for a moment. Tricky one that.

What made this the most complex and challenging of problems, was the fact that there appeared to be no form of happy ending. No matter how much he planned and schemed, he could see no solution, no possible way out. Sherlock would come back eventually, that was always their agreement. Now, it was more a question of _when._

He stacked his work papers into a neat file and moved them to the side, sighing softly. The real issue was, none of this had been part of the plan. He wasn’t supposed to have fallen into some kind of hopeless relationship with John - with his own _brother’s_ ex. He wasn’t supposed to have given into that utterly destructive temptation he’d so effectively subdued all these years. But he had and…

The majority of him didn’t even regret it.

Because John was so unlike anyone he’d ever met. He was actually a very smart man, very witty. He had a watchful eye and a dangerous temper. But he was loyal, caring and thoughtful in a way that wasn’t annoying. He listened about work, offered reasonable solutions. They were actually able to make jokes together - attuned to a similar sense of humour. In fact, it _hurt_ to wonder what life could be like if things were different, if they’d met in another universe - another century. What if they were the same age? If they’d found each other at university? What if they’d studied together been friends and then...

He blinked and swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat. Worst of all it _hurt_ because -

Sherlock has picked a very good man.

And they were stuck in this century, this universe, in this _exact_ messed up situation.

His phone suddenly buzzed on the desk in front of him, the sound making him jump violently.

A name flashes up on the screen. Sherlock.

_Oh god._

Mycroft leant forward and pushed his head into his hands, breathing heavily.

It was the first time he’d heard from his younger brother in months, and it had to be now, right when he was already on the verge of a John/Sherlock/Mycroft relationship crisis. Sherlock always was one to time things.

Mycroft reached out and slid his phone unlocked quickly. A small flock of butterflies already beginning to inhabit his stomach.

_I need the files on a certain Russian ambassador, Alexei zarch. SH_

Mycroft read the text several times before letting out an enormous sigh of relief. He sat back in his chair.

 _May I ask why? M_  He typed quickly.

_You know why. SH_

Sherlock's response came instantly, and the sharpness of it helped Mycroft relax. Of course he didn't know about him and John, how could he? He just simply needed information.

 _Stupid._ Mycroft muttered to himself. _Only fools panic about things._

He started typing his response, thankful that his devoted secrecy must have worked. Besides, even a genius such as Sherlock couldn’t possibly deduce things from the other side of the world. Mycroft dropped the phone to his lap and finished typing as fast as he could. He couldn’t let his response seem too slow, that would be suspicious.

_I had not expected his network to extend that far. M_

He took several deep breaths and waited patiently.

_Appears it does. SH_

Same response time. 30 seconds. He typed again.

_The files you are asking for are incredibly secret, strictly classified by the highest order. M_

_Which is you. SH_

Mycroft rolled his eyes. He was about to think of a witty reply when-

_Anyhow, nothing should be classified to me. We’re working together on this particular matter, brother dear. SH_

_Oh._

Mycroft's heart began to pound heavily in his chest. Vibrate in his ears. Guilt curled in his stomach. There was so much that was ‘classified’ to Sherlock, so much his brother didn’t know. How could he ever - he decided to move away from the subject as soon as possible.

_They've been sent. M_

Mycroft waited for Sherlock’s instant reply but this time it didn’t come. He put down his phone. Surely that wasn’t the end of the conversation? Sherlock wasn’t one for saying thank you but he _was_ one for getting the last word. Several minutes passed. Each second making Mycroft more anxious, more worried. He stared solidly at his phone before him, not blinking, until his eyes started to water. He was considering asking if everything was ok when-

_And what of John Watson? SH_

Mycroft’s hands started trembling. The hairs stood up on his arms. _Stop._ He told himself. He needed to play this cool. He couldn't panic.

 _He is fine. M_  

Sherlock’s response came instantly.

_I trust you are keeping a steady eye on him. SH_

Mycroft would laugh at the irony of the situation if it weren’t so serious.

_Of course. M_

Another tortuous minute passed. Mycroft started to feel slightly dizzy.

_I may be back in London sooner than expected, this appears to be the final lead. SH_

Mycroft's jaw fell open. His heart plummeted to the bottom of his chest. _Oh shit. Shit!_ He needed more time. More precious time with John, to explain, to think of a way out of this. He  _needed_ more time.

_I have a feeling John will not welcome you. M_

A moment.

_Why wouldn't he? SH_

Mycroft bit down on his lip. Oh god, like a stupid panicking child he had led himself into a trap. What on earth was he supposed to reply to that?

_??? SH_

Mycroft could almost picture Sherlock’s irritated expression before him. Muttering the words ‘well???’ as he tapped impatiently at his phone. He tried to think of a response. Something - literally anything would do. He was taking too long. Every second was another one wasted. He could feel pressure building all around him, closing his throat, thinning the air. He couldn't appear suspicious, he _couldn’t_.

_You've been gone for nearly two years, Sherlock. He still believes you to be dead. M_

_So???_

_Only my assumption, brother dear. M_

His hands were still trembling. The room suddenly felt very small.

_And it is mine that you are wrong, Mycroft. SH_

Mycroft sat back in his chair and wiped a sweaty palm across his forehead, swiftly deciding it would be best if he didn’t reply. Perhaps if he left it that would be the end of the conversation. But-

A sharp thought suddenly occurred to him.

_If you would be so kind as to inform me when you are heading back to London? M_

He waited. Half expecting Sherlock to burst through the door at any moment. That would be so very him. Always unpredictable.

_Maybe. Or I might just surprise you. SH_

Mycroft's stomach twisted. A horrible knot formed within him, binding his insides. He stared at the text for several moments. A million thoughts passed through his head, his brain playing out a billion different scenarios.

But each and every one of them ended in tears.

He gulped silently.

Has he ever been so nervous? Has he ever been such a wreck? He typed the next text without thinking. Pure anxiety flooding his senses. 

_Please don't. M_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. You can follow me on @221bsherlockfandom_ I'm always open to making new friends!


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